Read Online The Misremembered Man by Christina McKenna - Free Book Online

in the course of perusing the classifieds, he came across words such as “professional,” “intelligent,” or “adventurous,” some inner guiding force would snap a blind down, stall the roving finger and move it automatically to the ad below.
    This laborious task—reading, considering and reading some more—took time. Jamie had finished the tea and buns, smoked two cigarettes, used the outside privy, and rejected fifteen women before he finally came upon what he believed he was looking for.
    He read it a second time aloud just to be sure it was real, and not his imagination playing tricks.
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MATURE LADY , enjoys cooking, gardening, reading, music and animals, would like to meet a like-minded gentleman with a view to friendship and outings. BOX Nr.: 218
     
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    It was just the thing. He fetched his blue ballpoint from the broken ear of the ceramic cat in the glass case, and drew a careful circle round the ad. Now came the difficult part: writing a letter of introduction to the lady in question.
    He had to find notepaper and knew he’d seen a fairly decent pad in the house at some stage. But when that was and where it might be—now that was another thing. There was a suitcase of Aunt Alice’s in the upstairs bedroom, where Uncle Mick had locked her effects after her committal. And she, being a woman, might have had writing paper, and it might still be in the case, going to waste. Mick had cleared the house of his wife’s presence soon after her departure, knowing she would not be returning. He could not bear to be reminded of what had been. And the young Jamie had somehow understood that.
    He climbed the stairs two at a time and pushed into the dusty bedroom. He could not remember the last time he’d been in there, but it was probably just after Mick’s death; he’d no reason or desire to visit it since. The place held too many recollections of his ailing uncle in the big bed. He could still see Mick’s stricken face sunk into the fat bolster, like a wizened pear in a gift box, and could hear the rasping voice, vainly battling with the throat cancer that would finally claim him.
    Jamie stood in the doorway, subdued by the memories of that awful time, somehow afraid to tread the unwalked floor, breathe the unshared air. This was Mick’s room, and it seemed that even in death he was still here.
    Everything was as it had been left: the stripped bed in the corner, the dark dresser with its cloudy mirror, a cracked bowl and pitcher on the small table by the window. Then, all at once, as he stood there, a shaft of cloud-freed sun threw a bandage of light across the floorboards, as if in warning, as if to thwart his trespass.
    Jamie could see the shabby suitcase under the bed, its secrets secure behind the rusted hasps, and he knew with mounting apprehension that he could not cross the floor to open it. Out of respect for his uncle, he changed his mind. He’d buy a pad of writing paper of his own. Sure he’d probably be needing a fair few pages, because he felt certain that he’d make some mistakes, him not being used to the writing down of things and all.
    He shut the door quietly and turned the key. He’d go out straightaway to Doris Crink at the post office and get some.
     
     
    “The post’s rather late,” Lydia murmured to herself and checked her watch against Cousin Ethel’s clock on the far wall. “Quarter past one…Probably no delivery now at this time.”
    Elizabeth Devine, sitting at the other end of the table, in a Naples yellow sweater dress, left off eating her apple crumble and custard, and looked up suspiciously at her daughter.
    “Why are you so interested in the postman all of a sudden? He’s a married man too, you know…and I should hope you wouldn’t even be considering anyone from the common classes—not even in your dreams.”
    She resumed eating. Her purple-pansy rinse had turned out a deeper shade than expected. She’d blamed Susan for neglecting her. But the fact of