Justin Go - The Steady Running of the Hour

— Mr. Walsingham, Imogen calls. Ashley. Sit with me.

Ashley screws his face up to the sky. It is raining harder now, the droplets drumming a quick rhythm against the leaves.

— We’d as well wait it out here, she says.

— This tree won’t keep us dry forever.

— We don’t need forever. Sit down.

Ashley takes a seat beside her, leaning his swagger cane against the inside of his knee. He picks a few twigs from beneath his legs and tosses them away. He smiles.

— Did you really lose the key?

— Yes.

— Under this tree?

— I think so.

— Couldn’t you find some other way to get in?

— I’d rather not.

— You’d get in trouble?

— I’m already in trouble, she says. I’ve neglected certain plans tonight. You make me terribly irresponsible.

The rain quickens. A few large drops sink between the leaves, landing cold on Ashley’s neck. Imogen leans her head upon his shoulder, her fingers brushing the knot of his khaki necktie.

— But I’ve no regrets, she adds.

— Nor I.

Ashley puts his hand to her bare forearm. Her skin is damp and cool. He can feel the fine goose bumps on her arm. Imogen kisses the bottom of his chin and moves up toward his mouth, her lips skirting his.

— I knew you’d be at the concert, she whispers.

She takes his swagger cane and tosses it aside. Ashley brings her close and they kiss softly at first, then harder. Imogen pulls back and looks at him. She smiles, then takes his hand and lays her head upon his chest.

— I suppose you shall think me the sort of girl to kiss a man she scarcely knows.

— I expected so. For heaven’s sake, why do you think I came—

— Ashley!

He laughs as Imogen elbows him. He runs his hand over her hair, smoothing it, spreading the raindrops into the glossy band above her face.

— You aren’t any sort, he whispers. You’re only yourself.

— Darling. You know I’ve never done anything like this. It’s only that I felt we had to. There isn’t time enough for you to take me on strolls once a week—

She looks up at him.

— You leave on Thursday?

— Yes.

She nods. — Five days.

Ashley strokes her neck, bringing her close until he can feel the warmth of her body through her wet dress. They kiss on and on with mad abandon, trying to satisfy something that will not be satisfied. Imogen leans back against him. Ashley wraps his arms around her shoulders.

— I’ve seen you before, he says suddenly. I didn’t tell you, but I knew it the moment I saw you at the lecture. It was in Snowdonia, the Gorphwysfa Hotel. The last Pen y Pass party before the war. You were with a group motoring by—

Imogen springs up.

— You were there? she gasps. I’m sorry—

— We didn’t meet. I only saw you. You play the piano, don’t you?

— A bit. But how could you remember that? It was years ago.

— It’s not the kind of thing one forgets.

Imogen laughs and puts her arms around his neck. She kisses him on the cheek and tells him that this is wonderful news.

— It wasn’t any accident that brought us here.

— With only five days?

— Five days, she repeats. We’ll spend them all together.

— I’m meant to go to Berkshire tomorrow. I have to see my people before I cross—

— I’ll go with you.

— To Sutton Courtenay?

— Why not? I’ll stay in a hotel nearby. In the evenings you’ll say you’re visiting school chums and you’ll sneak out to see me. You’ll go out your bedroom window and climb down a trellis. You do love to climb.

— You’re so certain of this already?

— Already?

— It’s been only a day.

Imogen lies back with her head on his chest. She looks up to the canopy of leaves above, all of them humming in the rain.

— But we’ve known each other for years, she says.

— You didn’t remember me.

Imogen plucks a wet blade of grass from the lawn and lifts it before her eyes. She studies the blade, turning it in her hand.

— No, she says. But you remembered me.

It is late. I know this from the brightness of the stars in the open doorway, and because the shouting and singing outside ended long ago. Everyone must have gone to sleep by now.

I went through the boxes one by one, sifting through contents and stacking, moving chairs and garden tools and old appliances to clear a path. All the documents and mail here are addressed to the Sjöbergs, which must be Karin’s family.

Finally I reach the staircase and I begin pulling out the boxes. Rusty old socket wrenches, tubes of grout, paintbrushes and scrapers. At the top of the steps there’s a roll of fiberglass insulation and a heavy box full of hardcover books. I move the insulation and step over the box.

Moonlight pours through windows onto the warped floorboards of the hallway. As I walk I have the sensation of leaning sideways. The floorboards groan. My feet make tracks in the thick dust.

I enter the bedroom facing the woods. More boxes everywhere. I push them aside until I reach a short bed of ancient oak, the bedposts decorated with elaborate carvings. Against the opposite wall there is an antique writing desk stacked with old linens and bedspreads. I move the linens to the bed and go through the desk drawers. Paper clips; rolls of undeveloped film; rusted keys on a ring; steel sewing bobbins still wound with thread. In a bureau wedged below the desk there is a heavy case of stained walnut. I flip the brass latches. A butterfly collection under glass, the insects speared with pins and labeled in Latin and Swedish. Danaus plexippus. Monarkfjäril.

— The monarch butterfly, I whisper.

A paper tag is affixed inside the lid of the case. Per Andersson. Svartmangatan 11, Uppsala.

A shiver passes through me. I sit on the floor to take a breath and think. A few minutes later I cross the hall to the opposite bedroom. More boxes, a pair of twin beds covered in hand-knitted throws. No doubt once snow-white, the throws are grayed with decades of dust. Inside the boxes are folded linens and porcelain plates wrapped in brittle newspaper. I move the boxes and sit on one of the beds. Beside me is a red nightstand, its year of manufacture painted in florid numerals: 1663 . The nightstand has a large drawer. I pull on the handle, but it is stuck shut. After a few jerks it pulls open.

The drawer is filled with magazines. The Athenaeum, Nouvelle Revue Française, The Egoist, The Burlington Magazine . I check the dates. August 1915. Julliet 1916 .

I pace around the two bedrooms, peering under the beds, throwing back curtains. The air is full of dust and it makes me sneeze. In the hall closet there are lapelled jackets, a long fur coat and several pairs of rubber boots. I reach for the tag on the coat and some of the fur comes off on my fingers. Fourrures Weill. 4 Rue Ste Anne Paris . I pull out all of the clothing and make a pile in the hallway. I’m making a lot of noise now and I think I hear footsteps on the staircase. I stop and listen, my breath heavy. No one comes in. I go back to the second bedroom and sit on the bed.

The sisters must have come here in December. I imagine them being rowed across the lake in the cold, a thick cloak wrapped around Imogen’s shoulders as she watched the trees of the town grow smaller, the trees of the island grow larger and larger. There must have been snow everywhere, the ropes at the pier coated in ice. They would have walked up the twisting path to the house, someone carrying their suitcases, Eleanor in front and Imogen following slowly behind, about to see her home for the next six months. She had never seen it in snow before. Finally the red house would come into view through the trees, black smoke rising from the chimney, the caretaker coming out into the icy clearing and taking the bags from their hands.