Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

He helped her carry in the shopping she had bought at a Tesco’s on the way from St Andrews to Inverness, and his own small suitcase. He seemed to know immediately which of the three bedrooms upstairs was his. Mrs MacInnes had set up one of the others for Clémence, and the third was a small study with a desk.

Clémence unpacked the groceries, paid for with the promise of a five-hundred-pound transfer into her bank account by Aunt Madeleine for expenses. Given what Mrs MacInnes had already supplied, the cottage was now well stocked. Then she went into the sitting room and studied the fireplace. She squatted and began to stack the wood in a neat pile in the grate.

‘Do you want some help?’ The old man was watching her.

‘Not much call for wood fires in Hong Kong,’ said Clémence, embarrassed by her ignorance.

‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ said the old man, unstacking the wood and rolling the sheets of newspaper by the fire up into complicated shapes. ‘It’s good there’s something useful that I can actually remember how to do. Here, let me show you.’

He soon had it lit, and they stood back to admire his work.

‘Why aren’t you back there now?’ the old man asked. ‘In Hong Kong? I suppose it’s too far to go just for a couple of weeks?’

‘That’s right,’ said Clémence. ‘It’s just too expensive.’ But she knew she was looking shifty as she said it — Aunt Madeleine had always paid for flights home in the school holidays and would be happy to pay for them while Clémence was at university. Clémence had never been a good liar, and from the way the old man was looking at her, she was pretty sure he knew she wasn’t telling the truth.

She fled to the kitchen and set about preparing an early supper. Her cooking skills were limited, her repertoire cheap-and-easy student food, but she was good with pasta. While she was cooking, she was aware of the old man pacing around the house, picking things up and putting them down again. He went outside for a few minutes, to walk around the tiny garden and stare through the trees to the loch below.

Mrs MacInnes had left a bottle of red wine, and Clémence opened that, even though she had brought her own supply. She and the old man sat down.

‘Are you hungry, Dr Cunningham?’ she said, as she served him.

‘I am, actually,’ he said. ‘And call me Alastair. Everyone seems to think that’s my name, and so I must take that on trust.’

‘You must know that’s your name,’ said Clémence. ‘Isn’t there some recognition?’

‘Yes, there is now,’ said Alastair. ‘And some of this is familiar. I know that the corkscrew came from that drawer, for example,’ he said, pointing to the second drawer down.

‘You know, I think my grandfather might have owned this estate. Or my great-grandfather,’ said Clémence. ‘I recognize the name, Wyvis.’

‘But you can’t remember?’ said the old man with a grin.

Clémence laughed. ‘No. But I can ask Grandpa. He’s still alive. He lives in London.’

‘That’s Madeleine’s brother-in-law?’ said Alastair.

‘That’s right.’ For a second Clémence assumed that he had remembered something, but then realized that it was just what the doctors and she had told him. At least it showed his short-term memory for new things was working well.

‘I’m surprised they didn’t send him up here,’ said Alastair.

‘He’s pretty old,’ said Clémence.

‘So is Madeleine, presumably.’

‘That’s true,’ said Clémence. ‘And her husband died last year, run over in Arizona, it was horrible. But she is a terrific organizer, whereas no one expects very much from Grandpa. I think he’s an alcoholic? Or used to be. I don’t know him very well. But I will give him a call tomorrow and ask him about you.’

‘So his wife was Madeleine’s sister?’ said the old man.

‘Exactly. My grandmother. I never knew her; she died long before I was born. Drowned on holiday. No one likes to talk about it.’

‘She was French,’ said the old man frowning, fighting for memory.

‘Yes,’ said Clémence. They were still on information the old man had been given or could deduce.

He looked up at Clémence, his eyes shining. ‘She was very beautiful. Wasn’t she?’

Clémence remembered a black-and-white portrait of her grandmother that her father kept in his bedroom. ‘Yes, she was.’

‘She looked like you.’

‘Did she?’ She glanced at the old man, who flashed a grin of unexpected warmth, even charm. She felt herself blush. ‘I thought she had blond hair?’ Clémence’s was dark.

‘She did. But she had your eyes. And your chin. And there is something about the way you move that reminds me of her.’

‘That’s fantastic, Alastair!’ said Clémence. ‘You remember her!’

He smiled. ‘Yes, I remember her. I don’t remember your grandfather, or this Madeleine woman, but I do remember her.’

‘Perhaps if I describe Grandpa, you might remember him,’ Clémence said. ‘His name is Stephen. Stephen Trickett-Smith.’

‘No, Clémence. I’m tired. Let’s start on all that tomorrow.’

‘OK,’ said Clémence. ‘The doctor said that we should go through your papers and photos to see whether that might jog anything. Do you mind if I look at them? I feel bad about going through your private stuff.’

Alastair didn’t answer. The smile had disappeared. For a brief moment his face seemed stricken with something close to horror, and then his jaw set.

‘What is it, Alastair? If you don’t want me to look through your papers, I won’t. We can just talk.’

He finished his pasta and put down his knife and fork. ‘The truth is, I’m scared of what you might find. What I might find.’

‘You mean some horrible secret?’ Clémence had said this with an attempt at humour, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them.

‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. We all have secrets. But I have a feeling I have a particularly unpleasant one.’

‘OK, that’s fine. I have no desire to learn your unpleasant secrets,’ said Clémence. And she didn’t, she really didn’t. ‘Why don’t you go through your papers yourself and you decide what you want to talk to me about?’

The old man frowned. Then he seemed to shake himself, and he smiled at Clémence. She liked his smile. The wrinkles in his face, the deep valleys and the canyons, rearranged themselves in a lacework of smaller, narrower lines, radiating across his cheeks. It was a shame he wasn’t someone’s grandfather. ‘That was a very good supper, Clémence,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate you staying with me, and helping me with this, and I’m sorry I was so difficult earlier.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Clémence.

‘And now, I know it’s early, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed.’

Clémence cleared the table as the old man climbed the stairs to his room. He was slow, but he seemed to have no real trouble. Nor had there been any discussion about Clémence needing to help him get to bed. That was a relief. She would go up and check on him in half an hour or so, just to make sure.

She was looking forward to helping him try to recover his life. Clémence had a tendency to feel sorry for people, and she definitely felt sorry for the old man. It was bad enough to be an old person alone without family or friends — she had met enough of them at the nursing home — but the idea of lacking memories as well appalled her. No wonder he had appeared frustrated and scared; she wasn’t sure how she would cope if she was in his position. The loneliness must be almost total. She remembered the pleasure he had shown at recalling his sister, how he had warmed to his memories of Porky and his childhood.