Читать книгу The Girl in the Cellar - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 8

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She did not go to sleep again. She had no watch, but by the light she judged it to be something after six. She got her bag and counted the money in it. The inner compartment held ten one-pound notes. In the small outer purse there were a few pence, a sixpence, and a shilling, the remains of the loose spending money which she had broken into in the bus. She must have paid for her journey down here too. Yes—she could remember that. The other things in the bag were an ordinary pencil with a tin protector, bright green and not at all new, and a little calendar with a bunch of flowers on it in shades of pink and red, a pale yellow handkerchief without any mark on it.

The handkerchief sent her looking in the pockets of her coat and skirt. Thomasina had hung it in the wardrobe. It looked lonely there—made her seem to herself neglected, deserted—oh, she didn’t know what. She shook the thought away and took down the coat and skirt. It was dark grey with a thread of blue in it, and the shirt was blue too. She went through the pockets of the coat and found nothing but a handkerchief—a blue handkerchief that matched the shirt. Her hat was on a shelf in the cupboard. Rather a nice hat, small and close—black and blue feathers. Just for a moment she came nearer to remembering when she had bought it and where, but it was gone again—no use thinking of it, no use trying to remember. Her shoes—black, neat, plain. Her stockings, nylon, fine mesh. She stopped with them in her hand. That was curious. Just for a moment she was buying stockings, and the girl was saying, “These are very nice,” and she could hear herself say, “Oh, no, I want them finer than that.” And then it was all gone again.

It shook her a little. She got back into bed, and presently Thomasina came in with a tray. She was in a silent mood. She put down the tray and was gone again without words. Anne got up and dressed.

It was when she was coming downstairs that Harriet came up behind her. She checked awkwardly, and then came on again with a curious slow reluctance. Anne said, “Good-morning,” and got rather a strange look in reply. She tried to describe it to herself afterwards and failed. It was half curious, half resentful. It seemed a long time before there was any answer, and when it came it was just a murmur that might have been anything. Harriet went past her at a run and was gone.

When she came down to the hall Anne was hesitating, not quite sure of the way. And then there was Lilian coming down behind her and full of talk.

“I hope you slept well. Sometimes one does after a journey, and sometimes one doesn’t. My old nurse always said that what comes in your sleep the first night you’re in a house sets the pattern, but of course that’s all nonsense.”

They crossed the hall and went into the dining-room. There was porridge and a jug of milk, and tea in a fat old-fashioned teapot with a huge strawberry on the lid.

“I don’t know what you have for breakfast. We just take porridge, but I believe the maids have eggs and bacon, so if you would like to ring, Thomasina will get you what you want. And then don’t you think we should do something about finding your luggage? Where did you have it last?”

“I don’t know—”

Lilian looked up from the careful ladling of porridge.

“There—that’s yours. And the milk—we get very good milk here. And the sugar—do you take sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“Salt then—just by you. What were we talking about? Oh, yes, your luggage. Where did you have it last?”

“I don’t—really know—”

Harriet came into the room, sat down opposite Anne, handled the letters, picked out two and opened one of them, becoming immediately absorbed in it.

Lilian prattled on.

“I always think it’s a mistake to read letters at breakfast. My father never cared about our doing so. Of course he belonged to the generation that had the post brought in and put down in front of them, and no one expected to get their letters until he had gone through them. Now what was I saying when Harriet came in? Oh, yes, it was about your things—your luggage. What did you say happened to them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, we must find out. When did you have them last?”

Anne felt a curious giddiness. She said,

“I don’t know—”

Lilian’s tone sharpened.

“My dear, you must know when you last saw your own luggage!”

Harriet looked up from her letter and said,

“Lucinda says everything is astonishingly dear.”

This time Lilian took no notice of her. She repeated what she had said before.

“You must know when you saw your luggage last!”

“I—I’m afraid I don’t.”

“You got it off the boat?”

Nothing came to Anne’s mind about getting her luggage off the boat. Nothing came to her about the boat, the voyage, her fellow travellers. She said humbly,

“I don’t seem to know anything at all.”

Lilian looked at her in an odd way.

“How very singular. I don’t think I should go about saying that to people. I don’t know what you mean by it.”

Anne said,

“I don’t know what I mean by it myself. I—I’ve lost my memory.”

Harriet had lifted her head from her letter. A dark pale face with a startled look, her eyes oddly light.

“What do you mean?” she said.

Anne answered her.

“I don’t remember anything before yesterday. I don’t know why I have come here. I don’t know who I am.”

They were both looking at her now. There was something curious in the way of it. Lilian said slowly,

“You don’t know who you are?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then how did you come by the bag and my letter?”

There was something in the tone, in the way that Lilian looked at her, that gave her pause. She opened her lips to reply and something struck them dumb again. Fear, doubt, caution—she didn’t know which of these restrained her. Or was it something deeper? Something she didn’t know about now—that she had known, and perhaps would know again? She didn’t know it now. She put it away and said with an added firmness that surprised herself,

“They were in my hand when I was walking down the street.”

“And you don’t know that you are Anne Fancourt?”

She shook her head and was silent for a moment. Then she said,

“I’m Anne. I don’t know about the Fancourt.”

She could have said nothing more arresting. What Lilian knew, what Harriet knew, came to their minds. It was Harriet who said,

“Don’t you remember Jim?”

She shook her head. It was full of whirling thoughts.

“No-no—”

It was Harriet who spoke again.

“Why, he’s your husband!”

She felt herself in a strange place with an icy wind blowing. It went round, and round—round, and round. And then she was back in the room with Lilian and Harriet looking at her. She said,

“I ought to have known that.” And Lilian said sharply, “Of course you ought! You had much better be quiet and try to remember!”