Rosie Thomas 2-Book Collection One: Iris and Ruby, Constance. Rosie Thomas

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       Chapter Five

      There is light sliding into the room and for the moment I am disorientated.

      But a second afterwards I realise that I have slept much later than I usually do, and the unfamiliar brightness is mid-morning sunshine. There is an associated feeling that I take longer to identify, but then I look down at my fingers on the bedsheet and I can remember Ruby’s hand curled in mine. She was holding my hand when I fell asleep and I must have slept so deeply that I have hardly stirred all night. The dent in the covers left by her resting elbow is still there. The unfamiliar sensation is happiness.

      This morning the chambers of my head all seem to stand open, with their contents reassuringly accessible. I feel weak after the fever, but better than I have done for a long time. I sit up and put my bare feet to the floor.

      Ruby is in the inner garden with Auntie. They are looking at the plants together and Auntie is rubbing a scented leaf in the palm of her hand for Ruby to have a sniff. Their backs are turned, but then Ruby looks sideways over her shoulder and sees me and her face breaks into a smile. I think she needs company and a measure of affection. Perhaps we both do.

      Auntie brings a tray of tea, and when we are settled in the shade Ruby tells me that she has already had breakfast in the kitchen with Mamdooh and Auntie.

      ‘And supper last night, as well. Auntie’s been showing me things, she’s been making fruit jelly for you with pomegranates and a special jelly bag. I always thought jelly just came in cubes that you pour boiling water on.’

      ‘Do you cook at home?’

      Ruby considers. ‘A bit, I suppose. Easy stuff. Mum’s a good cook, though. I’ll never be as good as her. She’s brilliant at all those things, like food and gardening, and making elegant Christmas decorations. Well, you know that.’

      I don’t, not really. Lesley is my daughter and I don’t know when we last cooked for each other. I didn’t know about her expertise with holly and fir cones, and I have never been to her present house so I haven’t admired the roses. I acknowledge that these failures are my fault and not Lesley’s. Of course I acknowledge it. For her whole life, right from the beginning, I wanted to be somewhere else. It was not because of who she was, but because her presence – and her father’s – intensified such a sense of loss in me. I wished it otherwise, but wishing made no difference.

      I thought, and still think, that life is a cruel affair.

      ‘Iris?’

      ‘Yes. I am listening.’

      But a glance at the child’s face shows that I must have lost track of what she was saying for longer than I realised.

      I was thinking, and the train of thought led back to Xan.

      ‘Ruby, do you remember we talked about you helping me to collect some of my old memories?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I think it’s a good idea. I think we should start today.’

      ‘Right. Yeah, absolutely. But you remember what I said about … you know, not being all that great at spelling et cetera?’

      The sound of trickling water fills the garden.

      ‘What? Yes, you did tell me. We’ll find a way.’

      I am eager to begin. Ruby’s idea has thrown me a lifeline.

      Hastily, I finish my breakfast. I call for Mamdooh and ask him to bring the key to my study. It is a rather dark little room at the rear of the house, hardly ever used and dignified only by the name of study because it had to be called something.

      ‘Yes, Mum-reese.’ Without moving he looks from Ruby to me.

      ‘Ruby is going to help me catalogue some of my papers,’ I say grandly. There are no papers. Or if there are I cannot recall where and what they would be.

      ‘Yes,’ Mamdooh says again, without conviction, but at least he goes off for the key.

      The three of us make our way there and he unlocks the door and stands aside. Ruby and I file in and Mamdooh follows, opening a shutter to let in the daylight.

      There is an old desk and a chair that I am sure I have never set eyes on before. But I do remember the typewriter. I take off the cover, blowing away the dust, and there is the Olivetti portable I bought in – where? In Rome, probably, when I was visiting Salvatore. (I have not lived without sex for all these years. Love is a different matter.)

      The typewriter. I turn to Ruby. ‘You could use this.’

      The child stares at it. Then she prods the q key with her forefinger so it strikes the platen with a dull click. It is as if she has never seen a typewriter in her life before.

      ‘Can you type?’ I ask her. ‘I can only use three fingers but it always seemed fast enough. You could make some notes while we talk and then perhaps type them up when it’s convenient?’

      She looks up from pressing the keys.

      ‘I did a word-processing course once. You know. Using a computer?’

      ‘A computer?’

      Fifteen years ago, when I retired and left the hospital in Namibia where I worked, computers were just starting to appear. The medical director, a suave young South African, had one of the first. Laurence Austin, that was his name. I’m pleased to retrieve this piece of long-buried data.

      Mamdooh says, ‘In Midan Talaat Harb and other places there are cybercafés. I have seen young people using computers there.’

      I have no idea what a cybercafé might be, but Ruby is nodding her head in acknowledgement.

      ‘We could ask Nicolas,’ I suggest.

      ‘Doctor Nicolas was visiting Mum-reese yesterday, when you were out of the house so many hours,’ Mamdooh explains to Ruby.

      The child’s cheeks have flushed and she looks unhappy so I try to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t even know what will be worth writing down. Maybe nothing.’

      ‘I’d like to help,’ she mutters, still eyeing the typewriter like an adversary.

      So we find ourselves, later when the day is beginning to cool, sitting in our places in the garden. Ruby has a notebook in her lap and she grips a pencil so tightly that the knuckle of her thumb is white.

      Silence stretches between us, then stretches again.

      Anyway, now that I have come to it I realise that the whole idea is absurd.

      Memory СКАЧАТЬ