— Maybe the bulb’s out. Or the fuse.
I switch on my headlamp, directing the beam over plastic crates and stacked chairs. A chain saw, a pile of wooden oars and planks leaning against the wall.
Karin laughs. — Ever seen so much junk?
— Sure. My parents’ garage used to look like this.
We take down a storage box and pull off the lid. A vacuum filter still in its dusty package. Cans of wood stain, boxes of white packing plaster. A thick catalog of SKF ball bearings. There’s a knock behind us as Christian appears in the doorway, saying something to Karin in Swedish. She turns to me.
— We’re going for a swim in the dark. Want to come with us?
— Maybe later. Is it all right if I look around here a little?
Karin shrugs. — Sure. Just let me know if you find anything. And don’t make a mess—
— Birthday swim, Christian interrupts. Let’s do it.
— I’ll be down later.
They walk out leaving the door open behind them. I shine my headlamp over the crevices of the room. The ceiling and walls are all dark wood, the roofbeams hanging low. There’s some kind of decorative textile hanging from the far wall, but it’s covered in dust and I can’t make out the subject. I pull another storage box from the table and look inside. Automobile repair manuals from the seventies. Yellowed composition books filled with longhand notes in Swedish. Brittle picture magazines. I stack the boxes behind me and start clearing a path to the staircase.
19 August 1916
19 August 1916
The Regent’s Park
Marylebone, Central London
They cross the street and enter the park through a green wrought-iron gate. The grounds are pitch-black, only the searchlights weaving tracks among the clouds above.
— We’re lucky there aren’t sentries, Ashley says. If anyone sees us they’ll take us for spies.
— They’ll take us for what we are.
— Which is?
Imogen smiles but she does not answer. The sky mists dark rain upon their shoulders and they step in shadow through a curtain of hedges. Imogen trips on a root and tumbles, laughing as Ashley helps her to her feet. They come out onto a lawn and Imogen spreads her arms, trotting forward under a huge willow.
— Here it is. This is the tree.
— You’re certain?
Imogen nods and points authoritatively.
— The French gardens were to our left, the houses to the right. You were asking whether I was properly English or not—
Ashley kneels on the damp grass, running his hands through the foliage.
— It isn’t here. I don’t see it.
They circle the tree, each following the other as they scan the grass, kneeling, their fingers groping among shadows. After a few circuits Imogen sighs.
— I suppose you were right. We shan’t find it here.
Imogen lifts her face to the rain and puts her hands out to feel the gathering droplets. She crouches at the foot of the willow, testing the dampness of the earth.
— You’ll get wet if you sit there, Ashley warns.
— I don’t mind.
She sits down and leans back against the tree trunk. Ashley continues to inspect the grass, orbiting the tree with his eyes fixed upon the ground.
— Mr. Walsingham, Imogen calls. Ashley. Sit with me.
Ashley screws his face up to the sky. It is raining harder now, the droplets drumming a quick rhythm against the leaves.
— We’d as well wait it out here, she says.
— This tree won’t keep us dry forever.
— We don’t need forever. Sit down.
Ashley takes a seat beside her, leaning his swagger cane against the inside of his knee. He picks a few twigs from beneath his legs and tosses them away. He smiles.
— Did you really lose the key?
— Yes.
— Under this tree?
— I think so.
— Couldn’t you find some other way to get in?
— I’d rather not.
— You’d get in trouble?
— I’m already in trouble, she says. I’ve neglected certain plans tonight. You make me terribly irresponsible.
The rain quickens. A few large drops sink between the leaves, landing cold on Ashley’s neck. Imogen leans her head upon his shoulder, her fingers brushing the knot of his khaki necktie.
— But I’ve no regrets, she adds.
— Nor I.
Ashley puts his hand to her bare forearm. Her skin is damp and cool. He can feel the fine goose bumps on her arm. Imogen kisses the bottom of his chin and moves up toward his mouth, her lips skirting his.
— I knew you’d be at the concert, she whispers.
She takes his swagger cane and tosses it aside. Ashley brings her close and they kiss softly at first, then harder. Imogen pulls back and looks at him. She smiles, then takes his hand and lays her head upon his chest.
— I suppose you shall think me the sort of girl to kiss a man she scarcely knows.
— I expected so. For heaven’s sake, why do you think I came—
— Ashley!
He laughs as Imogen elbows him. He runs his hand over her hair, smoothing it, spreading the raindrops into the glossy band above her face.
— You aren’t any sort, he whispers. You’re only yourself.
— Darling. You know I’ve never done anything like this. It’s only that I felt we had to. There isn’t time enough for you to take me on strolls once a week—
She looks up at him.
— You leave on Thursday?
— Yes.
She nods. — Five days.
Ashley strokes her neck, bringing her close until he can feel the warmth of her body through her wet dress. They kiss on and on with mad abandon, trying to satisfy something that will not be satisfied. Imogen leans back against him. Ashley wraps his arms around her shoulders.
— I’ve seen you before, he says suddenly. I didn’t tell you, but I knew it the moment I saw you at the lecture. It was in Snowdonia, the Gorphwysfa Hotel. The last Pen y Pass party before the war. You were with a group motoring by—
Imogen springs up.
— You were there? she gasps. I’m sorry—
— We didn’t meet. I only saw you. You play the piano, don’t you?
— A bit. But how could you remember that? It was years ago.
— It’s not the kind of thing one forgets.
Imogen laughs and puts her arms around his neck. She kisses him on the cheek and tells him that this is wonderful news.
— It wasn’t any accident that brought us here.
— With only five days?
— Five days, she repeats. We’ll spend them all together.
— I’m meant to go to Berkshire tomorrow. I have to see my people before I cross—
— I’ll go with you.
— To Sutton Courtenay?
— Why not? I’ll stay in a hotel nearby. In the evenings you’ll say you’re visiting school chums and you’ll sneak out to see me. You’ll go out your bedroom window and climb down a trellis. You do love to climb.
— You’re so certain of this already?
— Already?
— It’s been only a day.
Imogen lies back with her head on his chest. She looks up to the canopy of leaves above, all of them humming in the rain.
— But we’ve known each other for years, she says.
— You didn’t remember me.
Imogen plucks a wet blade of grass from the lawn and lifts it before her eyes. She studies the blade, turning it in her hand.
— No, she says. But you remembered me.
THE CACHE