accent is stronger than I remember. I hadn’t realized my own had faded in the years since I left Glasgow.
‘He’s my daughter, Abigail’s.’
‘You have a daughter? So, this is your grandson …’ Rene thinks for a moment. ‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You don’t remember your own grandson’s name?’ Rene chuckles.
‘I forget things. That’s what being old is like.’
‘Aye, I suppose.’
The baby is quiet, but his eyes dart around the room desperately. He’s searching for the same person I am.
‘What does it feel like, being old?’ Rene sticks her chin out at me and squints as though trying to puzzle something out. I think for a minute, then say –
‘What does it feel like being young?’ I smile, confident that I’ve said something wise, but Rene isn’t impressed.
‘No, that’s not an answer. I’ve always been young; I don’t know any different. You’ve been young and old, and all the bits in the middle. So, what does it feel like?’ She squints at me. ‘Is it crap?’
I see my friend as an equal, but Rene doesn’t see me the same. I feel like I’m looking from behind a mask. Something grotesque I’ve put on for Halloween and can’t get off.
‘It feels like … it feels like …’ I shake my head in frustration. ‘It feels no different! I feel no different. I’m the same person. You never feel grown up. You just feel like your body has gotten old and creaky and stupid. But you’re the same, inside.’
‘Okay …’ Rene nods at her shoes for a second, thinking. ‘Do you want to play a game?’
* * *
I wake with the baby still in my arms. The sun is on a different side of Mnemosyne now. I don’t know whether the sun has moved, or we have. We played I Spy until I fell asleep. Rene is on the sofa opposite, on her front, trying to read a newspaper. Already this seems normal. I’ve spent a lifetime waiting to turn a corner and see my friend, so it doesn’t seem strange that it’s finally happened.
The baby is still sleeping. What is his name? I must find out; it’s embarrassing not knowing. Abigail was always saying it. These facts haven’t gone anywhere. My doctor explained it like this – all my memories are still there, in my head, but they’ve become like locked rooms. The corridors between them have caved in.
I forget everything my doctor tells me, but I’ve remembered this. A big house, with many rooms in many styles. But now the house has gone to seed, damp has rotted the timbers, the windows leak and mould spots the plaster. If I could get to those locked rooms, I could rescue some trinkets, bring them close to the centre of myself. Even now I have a few dry, tidy rooms, like a down-at-heel aristocrat who can’t afford to fix the mansion.
I look down at the baby. He’s a good boy. I’ll put him in his bouncer while I get some pills. I push us off the sofa as the boat tilts.
‘Y’all right?’ Rene looks up from the paper.
‘Just going to put the baby down.’
‘Ellie, what’s an “internet”?’
I think for a moment, but my understanding of the internet can barely be more than that of a child of 1936.
‘It’s a fishing thing.’
‘Ah, right. Thought so.’
‘I’m just going downstairs.’
‘Okay. See if you can find any games to play.’
Downstairs, the lights are out. The doors to the cabins, where portholes let daylight in, are closed. I feel my way down the last few stairs and gasp. I’d forgotten the ankle-deep water. Some floating thing bumps against my leg and makes me jump. I move forward, feeling against the walls.
I open the first door, the baby’s room. A little light fills the corridor. I can see the object that bumped against my leg was a half-empty water bottle. There is more – a teething toy, shaped like the head of an elephant with flappy fabric ears; several jars and sticks which have escaped a bag of make-up; a blue plastic razor.
Is the water higher than before? It’s hard to judge, when I only felt it in the dark. I move forward until I get to my own room. All the bedsheets are in a sodden mess on the floor. The contents of my bedside table have spilled out, moisturizing creams and incontinence pads cruising around the room like battleships. I wade back into the corridor.
Here I remember – I should let Abigail know about the water. I try the handle of her bedroom and find it unlocked.
‘Abigail? Abigail?’
There is no response, but I wonder if she might be in the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the bed. I want to call his name, just in case he’s the one in the bathroom. But I can’t remember his name, or his face, or where he met Abigail in the first place, and so entered our lives.
The objects on the dresser have been stirred around but haven’t fallen. Only the compact mirror has fallen and shattered. Eventually, I get up and knock on the bathroom door.
‘Hello?’
There’s no reply, so I turn the handle. Empty. I stand there, trying to remember what I know. Where is Abigail? I’m sure I’m being stupid. It doesn’t help that I’m thirsty. Maybe Rene will remember what port we sailed from.
I trudge back around the bed. As I pass, I see something tucked under a pillow in a black case. I pull out a camera and sling it around my neck.
Before I go back up to the main cabin, I look into the room next to Abigail’s. The one they’ve been using as the baby’s playroom. The door opens easily. Water rushes around my ankles, as though there was more water in this room than in the corridor. A sodden teddy bear slides past me, face down. I notice that the wall – curved like the curve of the hull – is dented inward. The wood panelling is splintered. A little water dribbles down, like blood from a graze. Something floating in the water bumps against my leg.
I close and lock the door, then put the key in my pocket. I go back up to the main cabin.
‘You find anything to do?’ Rene kicks her legs back and forth.
‘Not really.’ I almost mention the playroom, but I don’t. ‘I found this camera. Maybe we can look at some pictures.’
‘Y’can’t look at pictures on a camera, Ellie. If y’open the back the film is all spoiled.’
‘This one’s different.’
I sit next to Rene. After some fiddling, the camera turns on and the little screen lights up with a picture of Mnemosyne and a man, arms raised in something like triumph. Rene gasps, mouth forming an ‘O’. I’m pleased to have something fancier than Rene Mauchlen, even if it’s not really mine.
‘Wow, that’s …’ Rene
