The Memory of Lost Senses by Judith Kinghorn Page A

allowing her eyes to adjust to the new light. “I was dreaming,” she said.
    He sat down on the chair opposite her. “And what were you dreaming of? Your mother, obviously.”
    “I’m not sure. This and that. It was all a muddle, it always is.” She glanced about the room. “Is Sylvia back indoors?”
    “Yes, and retired for the night. She said she didn’t wish to disturb you. Actually, she was rather upset.”
    “She gets upset too easily, far too easily. Always has. It’s part and parcel of having had so little in her life.”
    He smiled. “Perhaps we need to remember that,” he suggested. “That she has had so little.”
    “You’re right, of course you’re right. I was sharp with her. I shall apologize in the morning.”
    “I know we’ve had very little time together,” he began, staring down at the floor. “Growing up . . . well, you were overseas, I couldn’t see you, but now we have the opportunity . . . I’d like to know more about everyone: Father, Grandfather, Fanny, and you, your family, your parents. You see, it strikes me I know nothing about my own family. Mother”—and he paused after he said the word—“Mother was unable, or perhaps not inclined, to tell me anything about the Staunton side of my family. She always claimed she knew little about you.”
    Cora smiled, looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Good gracious, half past ten. I’ve been asleep for two whole hours. I rather think it’s time that I, too, went to my bed.” She struggled forward in her chair. He rose up, took hold of her hand and helped her to her feet. He looks so like him, she thought, observing his features in the lamplight; so like him.
    “Will you tell me sometime? Will you tell me about the family, your family? I’d like to hear about them all,” he said, holding her hand in his.
    “Yes, yes, of course I shall, but not tonight, my darling,” she said, trying to smile, placing her hand upon his cheek.
    As she moved away from him, toward the door, he said, “Oh, and I was thinking of inviting Cecily Chadwick to tea on Tuesday . . . You said you’d like to meet her.”
    She turned to him. “Yes, I would, and that’s a splendid idea. Good night, dear.”
    As she closed the door and moved across the hallway, she felt a constriction about her chest. She grasped the handrail, began to climb the stairs, and the rustle of her petticoats momentarily distracted her: that swish-swish-swishing sound that had accompanied her every movement, all of her life. A fleeting image of her younger self dashing up steps two at a time flashed through her mind’s eye, and she caught that sensation once more: the weightlessness of youth. Whalebone, she thought, can’t really be good for one’s breathing. But lodged deep in her breast was an ever-tightening dilemma, and one name playing on a loop inside her head: John Abel . . . John Abel . . . John Abel.

    After Cora retired to her bed, Jack sat alone for a while, cogitating. He reflected on the conversation he had had with Sylvia, earlier, in the garden, and it concerned and perplexed him in equal measure.
    “Of course, it could be the heat,” Sylvia had said. And he knew she was being polite, as any good friend would be.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can only apologize.”
    She had recounted Cora’s harsh words, had been tearful, and understandably so.
    “That she thinks I’m possessed  . . . with an obsession about her . . . her life, and after she invited me here, asked me to record her memories . . .” She shook her head, removed her spectacles and dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t know what I’ve done, Jack, to make her turn on me like that.” She raised her head, staring straight ahead. “I fear for her,” she continued, “that she can turn on me , her oldest, most devoted friend, and with such . . . such venom, such passion. Hatred, that’s what it was. Pure hatred.”
    “No, no, she doesn’t hate you. You mustn’t