The Memory of Lost Senses

The Memory of Lost Senses Read Online Free PDF Page A

Book: The Memory of Lost Senses Read Online Free PDF
Author: Judith Kinghorn
Cora.
    Sylvia knew that in Cora’s mind it had been a Great Love Affair. She knew that in Cora’s mind it still was, for she had not been able to let him go. But what niggled Sylvia more than anything else was, why? Why did she hold on to him? And, more importantly, why did she hold on to her secrets? After all, the beginning , that part of her story she would not speak of, happened long, long ago. Everyone involved would surely be gone by now. And she owed him nothing. Nothing. He had broken promises: promises of marriage, children and that bohemian gypsy life Cora had described to her all those years ago: “ We will move around, he says; live like gypsies. Spend winters here in Rome, spring in Paris, and summers . . . oh, I’m not sure now where he said we would spend the summer . . . but I’ll be back each year, so I’ll still see you .” Then he abandoned her. Left her high and dry in Rome. And all because of circumstances , circumstances so appalling and shocking as to be unbelievable, circumstances Sylvia had waited over fifty years for Cora to confirm. But patience seemed to count for nothing, and now Sylvia was determined.
    Before coming down to the country, in anticipation of the weeks ahead, Sylvia had gone through some of their early correspondence, archived, and filed in chronological order in various numbered shoeboxes at her flat. It had been a time-consuming process due to the sheer volume. And confusing, because of the crossings out: corrections made at earlier dates in Sylvia’s own hand. She had half-wondered whether to bring the letters with her to the country. But no, there were too many of them, and Cora would have reacted badly, for she had long ago asked Sylvia to burn them. Why? Because Cora’s tales from overseas (commentaries spanning half a century) had been illuminated by observations others would have had neither the courage nor inclination to put down on paper, and because of the names involved.
    Sylvia wanted Cora to elucidate, she wanted to hear her final version, and from her own lips, face-to-face and in person. Not the stories around the Story. That was what Cora was good at, had always been good at, deflecting, detracting. Even now, so many of her sentences began, “You know, I had a dear friend in Paris who once told me . . .” or, “My friend, so and so, in Rome used to say . . .” and continued by way of a circuitous route of name-dropping and digressions to a startling revelation. From a peccadillo to a double life, her tales of scandal had always been littered with abandoned wives, illegitimate children, lunatic asylums, mistresses, lovers, murders and duels. Sylvia had heard them all before and, even when they were fresh, even when they were new(s), nothing, no matter how scintillating, had ever been able to compare to Cora’s own and yet-to-be concluded story.
    “I do hope Jack enjoys his cricket,” Sylvia said at last.
    Cora said nothing. She appeared to be deep in thought, and continued to stare at the pane of glass, transfixed by her own image.
    “It’s so nice that he’s able to join in with the other young people,” Sylvia persevered. “Lovely that he’s made a few friends . . .”
    Silence.
    Sylvia lifted her cup, looked down into it. “I believe he’s rather taken by a certain girl in the village.”
    Cora turned to her.
    Sylvia took a sip. “I must say, this coffee’s really very good.” She placed the white china carefully back upon the saucer, lifted the napkin to her mouth. “Yes, awfully good,” she said again. She looked up at her friend, smiling. “You haven’t tasted yours.”
    Cora sighed. “Well . . .”
    “Well?”
    “Are you going to tell me? And don’t, for heaven’s sake, ask what . You know perfectly well what .”
    “He mentioned two names . . . but the hesitation before the second gave him away.”
    “And the name?” Cora asked.

Chapter Two

    Cecily remained indoors. Spread out on the long,
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