SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013
EARLY MORNING
One piece of the memory led to the next. It’s asthough I’d been blundering about in the dark fordays, weeks, months, then finally caught hold ofsomething. Like running my hand along a wall tofind my way from one room to the next. Shiftingshadows started at last to coalesce, and after a whilemy eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and Icould see.
Not at first. At first, although it felt like a memory, Ithought it must be a dream. I sat there, on the sofa,almost paralysed with shock, telling myself that itwouldn’t be the first time I’d misrememberedsomething, wouldn’t be the first time that I’d thoughtthings went a certain way when in fact they hadplayed out differently.
Like that time we went to a party thrown by acolleague of Tom’s, and I was very drunk, but we’dhad a good night. I remember kissing Claragood-bye. Clara was the colleague’s wife, a lovelywoman, warm and kind. I remember her saying thatwe should get together again; I remember herholding my hand in hers.
I remembered that so clearly, but it wasn’t true. Iknew it wasn’t true the next morning when Tomturned his back on me when I tried to speak to him.
I know it isn’t true because he told me howdisappointed and embarrassed he was that I’daccused Clara of flirting with him, that I’d beenhysterical and abusive.
When I closed my eyes I could feel her hand,warm against my skin, but that didn’t actuallyhappen. What really happened is that Tom had tohalf carry me out of the house, me crying andshouting all the way, while poor Clara cowered in thekitchen.
So when I closed my eyes, when I drifted into ahalf dream and found myself in that underpass, Imay have been able to feel the cold and smell therank, stale air, I may have been able to see a figurewalking towards me, spitting rage, fist rais............