Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

‘Neither did I,’ I said. ‘And poor Binns never did, remember.’

Corporal Binns had collapsed on the third day of our trek away from Gazala. The other soldier, Sergeant Gill, and I had tried to carry him, but had been unable to. So we had left him to die. There had been no choice. Or there had been a choice: die with him, or live without him. Gill and I had decided to live.

Four days later we had bumped into a Rhodesian Long Range Desert Group patrol and been driven back to the Allied lines. But Corporal Binns’s body remained in the desert. It was that choice, that decision, that had sat with me two years later when I was in the German prison camp. It was why I had eventually written a book. And it was probably why the book had sold so well. The reader couldn’t help asking himself, what would I have done?

‘Why did you call it a novel?’ asked Nathan. ‘Is it fiction?’

‘Not really. I made up some of the conversations, where I couldn’t remember what people actually said, or even some of the details of what happened. But I now realize that almost everyone who writes a memoir does that.’

‘And they are making a movie, I hear?’ said Stephen.

‘Yes. They’ve written the script and they are planning to start filming in November. I think they are going to do the desert scenes in Morocco.’

‘Who is going to play you?’ asked Nathan.

‘They plan to ask Richard Crowther,’ I said. Richard Crowther was a big British actor who had just starred in a film about the Malta convoys. But as I spoke, the obvious question arose. ‘Would you do it, Stephen? I can always ask.’

‘That would be swell!’ said Nathan. ‘Imagine Stephen playing Angus!’

‘He’d probably be better at it than me,’ I said. Actually, I found the thought of Stephen playing me on the screen a bit creepy. But the producer would probably say no anyway, and if he said yes, that was his problem. I was uncomfortable with the whole idea of seeing myself portrayed on film, and had almost turned down the studio’s offer. I had no intention of watching it.

‘I’d give it a go,’ said Stephen. ‘It would be fun.’

‘I’ll ask them then,’ I said.

‘So what’s it like being famous?’ said Sophie.

‘I’m not really famous,’ I said. ‘I’m not like Stephen — no one knows what I look like. The patients like it, those of them that know. And the money was useful. I invested some of it in Wakefield Oil, which was a good idea.’

Nathan grinned. ‘I hope that’s working out well for you?’

‘Very well, thank you, Nathan. Keep up the good work.’

‘Did you see Nathan’s profile in Fortune magazine last year?’ said Tony. ‘“The new breed of American oil baron”. All these famous people I know!’

No one said anything. Within a couple of seconds, the silence switched from accidental to awkward, as everyone remembered Tony’s desire to become a celebrated artist.

Tony laughed. ‘I know what you are all thinking. I wanted to be the next Picasso. But Alden was wrong: it was never going to happen. I just don’t have the talent. But I’m OK with that. I love painting. I love Capri. And now Elaine’s gone, I love my life. I do miss Alden, though. And I still have him to thank for setting me up.’

‘As do I,’ said Nathan.

‘Yeah, but I’m sure Wakefield Oil has done better with you in charge.’

‘Much better,’ said Madeleine. ‘The other stockholders all love him.’

‘Are you going to write another book, Angus?’

‘Oh, no. One is enough. And I don’t plan to have any more experiences like that to merit it. But there was something satisfying about getting it all down on paper. It sort of worked it out of my system. The fact people want to read it is a bonus.’

We ate a light lunch, prepared by the stalker’s wife, Mrs Ferguson, and spent the afternoon lazing outside on the lawn in front of the house, reading and chatting. Tony plunged into the loch, but the shock of the cold water had him screaming, and he was out within thirty seconds. He said the water was invigorating, but no one believed him. He just looked in pain.

It was a magnificent spot: the loch with its graceful curve, the ancient woods tumbling down to its shore, and the brown- and red-flanked mountains. There was not another habitation in sight: the isolation was absolute. The heat of the August afternoon settled on the water and created a bluish haze that hung round the tops of Ben Wyvis.

‘How high do you think that is?’ said Sophie.

‘Five thousand feet?’ said Tony.

‘Three thousand feet?’ said Stephen. ‘Four? There’s nothing in Scotland much higher than four thousand.’

‘Ben Nevis is four thousand four hundred,’ I said.

‘Trust you to know that,’ said Stephen.

‘I’d like to have a go at it tomorrow,’ said Sophie. ‘Will anyone join me?’

‘We’re supposed to be going stalking tomorrow,’ said Stephen.

‘But not the girls,’ said Madeleine. ‘Or even if we are, we spent our childhoods avoiding hunting deer. Papa loves killing deer, and Sophie and I don’t. But there is no chance that I will climb that mountain either.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ I said.

‘Don’t you want to come stalking?’ said Stephen.

‘Maybe another day. I would like to conquer Ben Wyvis. There is a little bit of the Edmund Hillary in me, and he’s demanding a challenge.’

Sophie smiled at me. ‘Thanks, Angus. Maybe we can ask Mrs Ferguson for a packed lunch.’

Stephen looked at his wife and at me. ‘I’ll check with the stalker to make sure you don’t scare the deer.’

Dinner was a formal affair. Stephen had warned everyone to bring dinner jackets, and he or his father had somehow rustled up a butler, Macpherson, from a neighbouring estate. The effort was worth it. The dining room was beautiful: silver and polished mahogany glimmering in the candlelight, with the evening light slipping away from the loch outside the large windows. The heather on the higher moorland burned a dramatic orange in the evening sun, while the loch slumbered a serene grey.

The two sisters looked gorgeous: Madeleine wore an expensive gown and serious jewels; Sophie’s yellow dress was much simpler. Stephen took his place at the head of the table, and acted as host. Nathan, who was the real host, was happy to let him do it. Sleek and composed, attentive rather than ostentatious, Nathan seemed comfortable with his considerable wealth and power, so comfortable he didn’t have the urge to flaunt it, especially among friends. But the butler loved Stephen, who acted the true aristocrat, even if he wasn’t quite. The food was good; the drink flowed. It was all rather fun.

Everyone was drinking, but Stephen was drinking fastest. The butler was happy to keep him topped up.

‘Is there anyone you should have brought up here with you, Angus?’ he asked.

‘Not at the moment, no,’ I said.

‘I’m surprised,’ said Stephen. ‘I’d have thought a country doctor would be a real catch.’

‘I’m probably too set in my ways for anyone to live with me now,’ I said, making sure that I didn’t look at Sophie as I did so. That wasn’t quite correct. There had been a few girlfriends, but I hadn’t wanted to share the rest of my life with any of them, and as I and they had got older, fending them off from marriage had become tiresome. These days, in my forties, I didn’t even bother to start the process.

‘What about you, Tony?’

‘Tony has Luciana,’ said Nathan.

‘She should have come along,’ said Madeleine.

Tony grinned. ‘I’m not sure she would have liked it. She’s quite particular about cooking. I doubt Scottish cuisine is her thing.’

‘No, seriously,’ said Madeleine. ‘You should have brought her with you. Next time, she’s definitely invited.’