S.D. Robertson - If Ever I Fall

M

Xx

‘Jack? Are you still with me? Come on, lad.’

I open my eyes and see Miles’s face hanging a couple of inches above me. We’re both on the floor in the kitchen. He’s sitting against the wall and I’m slumped against him. The tiles feel cold and hard under my legs. My head’s throbbing again.

‘Wha—’

I try to speak but only a croak comes out. I clear my throat, causing my head to spin even more, before trying again.

‘What happened?’

‘You fainted. Luckily I managed to catch you before you went banging your head again. Floor tiles aren’t exactly a forgiving surface to fall on.’

The last thing I can recall is Miles leering at me like a wolf. Was that real or did I imagine it? I search for an answer in the creases running across his forehead; I probe the depths of his eyes. But all I find there is concern. I see nothing to fear.

‘Why were you trying to confuse me about my name?’ I ask.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Trying to trick me by calling me John. Reeling off all those other names at me.’

He frowns. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Perhaps it might be wise for you to get some more rest.’

I’m confused. Is he playing games with me? I consider having it out with him, a full-blown row if necessary, but I don’t have the energy. I decide that either I had some kind of hallucination – a genuine possibility with my mind in such poor shape – or that Miles is using some textbook technique geared towards triggering my memories. I do hope it’s the latter. I’d give anything to get them back.

‘Why did I faint?’

‘You didn’t take it easy enough; we need to get some food down you. You’d have been better staying in bed rather than coming down here.’

I try to get up and he helps me back on to a chair at the kitchen table. ‘How’s that?’

I nod. ‘Better. I think I’m all right now. Thanks for catching me.’

‘No problem. Tell me if you start feeling faint again. Scrambled eggs?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Coming up.’

He hands me a pint glass of water, telling me to drink it all, and busies himself making breakfast.

When it arrives it’s delicious. The eggs are luscious and buttery, served on two lightly-toasted wedges of white farmhouse loaf. There’s orange juice to drink, plus freshly ground coffee from the fancy machine I spotted earlier.

‘Thank you. This is great,’ I say, in between mouthfuls.

Miles, who’s sitting opposite me, nods in response but continues to eat in silence.

When we’ve both finished the food and are sipping our coffees, he asks if I’d like some more toast.

‘That would be great.’

‘I need to feed you up. Get you back to health. I’ll never get anywhere with these renovations on my own.’

He goes to the fridge, pulls out a glass jar and places it on the table. ‘Try this if you like. Homemade marmalade. I picked it up in the village the other day. There was a fete on at the church hall. Raising money for roof repairs or something. I’ve no idea how it will taste.’

My eyes fall on the pot and I’m transported back to my youth.

I’m eight years old in a cool larder with my grandmother. She’s tiny – only a little taller than I am – standing on tiptoes on a footstool, stretching up to a high shelf.

‘Careful, Gangy,’ I say, worried she might fall.

She turns and hands me the jar. Orange Marmalade, her neat handwriting reads on a small white label. There’s no metal lid, like you get in the shops, but a special waxy disc and some see-through stuff held on with an elastic band.

‘Isn’t all marmalade made of oranges?’ I ask her in my high-pitched little boy’s voice.

‘Sometimes I put ginger in it too,’ she says, beaming that huge smile of hers at me like I’m the most important person in the world. ‘I’ve even made it with lemon and lime,’ she adds. ‘But I’m not sure you’d like that.’

‘I don’t like any marmalade apart from yours,’ I tell her.

She winks at me. ‘That’s my boy.’

Miles is on his feet. He looks concerned. ‘What happened?’

I’m breathing fast. ‘A memory. Something from my childhood. It was the marmalade. It looks like the stuff my grandmother used to make. Gangy, I called her. That’s how I said it when I was tiny and it kind of stuck.’

‘That all came back to you?’

I nod.

He looks pleased. ‘Fantastic. That’s a great sign. How much do you recall about her? Anything else about your childhood?’

‘I can only remember her as she was in that moment. Nothing else, I’m afraid, although I do have a feeling she died.’

‘A feeling? No actual memories of that?’

‘No. I can’t remember a funeral or anything. She looked so fit and healthy in that memory, and it felt nice to see her that way, as if I knew it wasn’t going to last. The memory was so vivid, like I was actually there. Is that normal?’

Miles shrugged. ‘Memory is complicated.’

A wave of tiredness washes over me. It makes no sense when the main thing I’ve done, for as far back as I can remember, is sleep. Must be to do with the head injury, although the throbbing has subsided again now.

‘How are you feeling?’ Miles asks.

‘A bit tired, to be honest. Is that normal?’

‘Yes. You still need lots of rest. You should go back to bed for a while.’

‘Will it bring back my memories?’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘You don’t sound confident. You’re surprised they’ve not come back already, aren’t you?’

His face remains blank, unreadable. ‘You just had a memory.’

‘Sure, but only a fragment: one moment from years ago. It’s useless without the rest. And who knows if it was even real? Maybe I was remembering something I once saw rather than a memory of my own.’

‘Is that how it felt?’ Miles asks.

‘No, I don’t think so. But who am I to say? I can tell you what a film is, but I can’t remember an occasion when I actually watched one. None of this makes any sense.’

‘Like I said, memory is complicated.’

‘Can’t you at least tell me exactly where we are?’ I ask him. ‘I’d really like to know.’

Miles hesitates for a moment and then his face softens, like he’s taking pity on me. ‘Fine.’ He walks over to a drawer and pulls out a map of Wales. He unfolds it on the kitchen table and shows me our exact location.

The information doesn’t help like I hoped it would, though. It means nothing to me at all.

I’m trapped. I was walking through a tunnel when there was some kind of earthquake and the ceiling collapsed. I’m pinned to the ground, covered in pieces of rubble. I can’t see them because it’s pitch black, but I can feel their rough edges all around me, digging into my skin, holding me down. There’s sensation in my arms, but I’m unable to shift them. They’re wedged into place. I can’t feel my legs at all.

‘Help,’ I shout, but it’s pitiful. The sound dies as it leaves my lips, the rocks all around me sucking it in like sponges. Then I feel water creeping along my back; rising from below. Terror rips through me. I’m going to die here: alone in the dark.

I wake with a start and throw the quilt off me in disgust. It’s soaking wet, as is the sheet below. My whole body is drenched in sweat. I jump out of the bed, shivering, only for a jolt of pain to run through my head, stopping me in my tracks. I stand as still as I can, my right hand squeezing my temples, and gradually the sensation fades.

The cave, the rocks: a dream, thank God. A nightmare.

I still feel so anxious, though. I have that feeling again that I should be somewhere else – somewhere I’m needed – rather than here. Someone somewhere needs me. The problem is, I don’t know who. I take deep breaths, like Miles showed me, trying to calm myself down.