The Memory Book Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Friday, 13 March 1992: Caitlin Is Born

  1: Claire

  2: Caitlin

  Saturday, 13 August 2011: Our Wedding

  3: Caitlin

  Sunday, 10 March 1991: Claire

  4: Claire

  Friday, 3 August 2007: Greg Takes Me Out for a Drink

  5: Claire

  Sunday, 8 August 1993: Ruth

  6: Claire

  Thursday, 19 November 1981: Claire

  7: Claire

  Friday, 15 December 2000: Claire

  8: Caitlin

  Friday, 11 July 2008: Greg

  9: Claire

  Thursday, 25 October 2007: Caitlin

  10: Caitlin

  Monday, 2 February 2009: Greg

  11: Claire

  12: Claire

  Saturday, 5 June 1976: Claire

  13: Caitlin

  Friday, 22 May 1987: Ruth

  14: Claire

  Tuesday, 11 July 1978: Claire

  15: Caitlin

  Thursday, 26 July 2001: Claire

  16: Claire

  Friday, 24 July 1981: Ruth

  17: Claire

  18: Caitlin

  Wednesday, 3 July 1991: Claire

  19: Caitlin

  Thursday, 10 March 2005: Caitlin

  20: Claire

  21: Caitlin

  About a Month Ago: Greg

  Tuesday, 19 June 2007: Claire

  Epilogue Saturday, 27 August 1971: Claire Is Born

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The name of your first-born. The face of your lover. Your age. Your address …

  What would happen if your memory of these began to fade?

  Is it possible to rebuild your life? Raise a family? Fall in love again?

  When Claire starts to write her Memory Book, she already knows that this scrapbook of mementoes will soon be all her daughters and husband have of her. But how can she hold on to the past when her future is slipping through her fingers …?

  Original, heartwarming and uplifting, The Memory Book is perfect for fans of Jojo Moyes.

  About the Author

  Rowan Coleman lives with her husband, and five children in a very full house in Hertfordshire. She juggles writing novels with raising her family which includes a very lively set of toddler twins whose main hobby is going in the opposite directions. When she gets the chance, Rowan enjoys sleeping, sitting and loves watching films; she is also attempting to learn how to bake.

  The Memory Book is Rowan’s eleventh novel; others include Just For Christmas (under the pseudonym Scarlett Bailey) and the award-winning Dearest Rose, which led her to become an active supporter of Refuge, the charity against domestic abuse. She is donating 100% of royalties from the ebook publication of her novella Woman Walks Into a Bar to the charity. Rowan does not have time for ironing.

  For my mum, Dawn

  Time has transfigured them into

  Untruth. The stone fidelity

  They hardly meant has come to be

  Their final blazon, and to prove

  Our almost-instinct almost true:

  What will survive of us is love

  —‘An Arundel Tomb’, Philip Larkin

  Prologue

  Greg is looking at me; he thinks I don’t know it. I’ve been chopping onions at the kitchen counter for almost five minutes, and I can see his reflection – inside out, convex and stretched – in the chrome kettle we got as a wedding present. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, checking me out.

  The first time I noticed him looking at me like this I thought I must have had something stuck in my teeth, or a cobweb in my hair, or something, because I couldn’t think of any reason my sexy young builder would be looking at me. Especially not on that day when I was dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt, with my hair scraped back into a bun, ready to paint my brand-new attic room – the room that marked the beginning of everything.

  It was the end of his last day; he’d been working at the house for just over a month. It was still really hot, especially up there, even with my new Velux windows open. Covered in sweat, he climbed down the newly installed pull-down ladder. I gave him a pint glass of lemonade rattling with ice cubes, which he drank in one go, the muscles in his throat moving as he swallowed. I think I must have sighed out loud at his sheer gloriousness because he looked curiously at me. I laughed and shrugged, and he smiled and then looked at his boots. I poured him another glass of lemonade and went back to my last box – Caitlin’s things – yet another box of stuff I couldn’t bring myself to throw out and that I knew I’d be clogging up the garage with instead. It was then that I sensed him looking at me. I touched my hair, expecting to find something there, and ran my tongue over my teeth.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I asked him, wondering if he was trying to work out how to tell me that my bill had doubled.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, nodding. He was – is – a man of few words.

  ‘Good, and are you finished?’ I asked, still prepared for bad news.

  ‘Yep, all done,’ he said. ‘So …’

  ‘Oh, God, you want paying. I’m so sorry.’ I felt myself blush as I rooted around in the kitchen drawer for my cheque book, which wasn’t there – it was never where it was supposed to be. Flustered, I looked around, feeling his gaze on me as I tried to remember where I’d last had it. ‘It’s around here somewhere …’

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ he said.

  ‘I had it when I was paying some bills, so …’ I just kept wittering on, desperate, if I’m honest, for him to be gone and for me to be able to breathe out and drink the half bottle of Grigio that was waiting for me in the fridge.

  ‘You can pay me another time,’ he said. ‘Like maybe when you come out with me for a drink.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I said, stopping halfway through searching a drawer that seemed to be full only of rubber bands. I must have misheard.

  ‘Come out with me for a drink?’ he asked tentatively. ‘I don’t normally ask my clients out, but … you’re not normal.’

  I laughed and it was his turn to blush.

  ‘That didn’t quite come out the way I thought it,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest.

  ‘You’re asking me on a date?’ I said, just to confirm it, because the whole thing seemed so absurd that I had to say it out loud to test I’d got it right. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you coming?’

  ‘OK,’ I said. It had all seemed so perfectly plausible to him: him and me, ten years between us, going out on a date. ‘Why not?’

  That was the first time I noticed him looking at me, looking at me with this sort of mingled heat and joy that I instantly felt mirrored inside me, like my body was answering his call in a way that my conscious mind had no control over. Yes, ever since then I’ve felt his looks long before I’ve seen them. I feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck, and a sense of anticipation washing over me in one long delicious shudder, because I know that soon after he looks at me, he will be touching me, kissing me.

  Now I feel his hand on my shoulder and I lean my cheek against his fingers.

  ‘You’re crying,’ he says.

  ‘I’m chopping onions,’ I say, putting down the knife and turning round to face him. ‘You know that all Esther will eat is Mummy’s homemade lasagne? Here, you should watch me make it, so you know the recipe. First, chop the onions …’

  ‘Claire …’ Greg stops me from picking up the knife again, and turns me towards him. ‘Claire, we have to talk about
it, don’t we?’

  He looks so uncertain, so lost and so reluctant, that I want to say no – no, we don’t have to talk about it, we can just pretend that today is like yesterday, and all the days before that when we didn’t know any better. We can pretend not to know, and who knows how long we might be able to go on like this, so happy, so perfect?

  ‘She likes a lot of tomato purée in the sauce,’ I say. ‘And also a really big slug of ketchup …’

  ‘I don’t know what to do or say,’ Greg says, his voice breaking on an inward breath. ‘I’m not sure how to be.’

  ‘And then, just at the end, add a teaspoon of Marmite.’

  ‘Claire,’ he says with a sob, and draws me into his arms. And I stand there in his embrace with my eyes closed, breathing in his scent, my arms at my side, feeling my heart pounding in my chest. ‘Claire, how are we going to tell the children?’

  Friday, 13 March 1992

  Caitlin Is Born

  This is the bracelet they gave you in the hospital – pink because you are a girl. It says: ‘Baby Armstrong.’ They put it on your ankle, and it kept slipping off because you were so tiny, a whole month early, to the day. You were supposed to be an April baby. I had imagined daffodils and blue skies and April showers, but you decided to be born one month early on a cold wet Friday, Friday 13th, no less, not that we were worried about that. If anyone was ever born to overcome bad omens it was you, and you knew it, greeting the world with an almighty shout – not a cry or a wail, but a roar of intent, I thought. A declaration of war.

  There wasn’t anybody there with us for a long time. Because you were early, and Gran lived far away. So for about the first six hours it was just you and me. You smelled sweet, like a cake, and you felt so warm and … exactly right. We were at the end of the ward and we kept the curtain closed around us. I could hear the other mums talking, visitors coming and going, babies crying and fussing, but I didn’t want to be part of it. I didn’t want to be part of anything ever again except for you and me. I held you, so tiny and scrunched up like a new bud waiting to flower, and I just looked at you, slumbering against my breast, a deep frown on your tiny face, and I told you it was all going to be fine, because you and I were together: we were the whole universe, and that was all that mattered.

  1

  Claire

  I’ve just got to get away from my mother: she is driving me mad, which would be funny if I wasn’t already that way inclined. No, I’m not mad, that’s not right. Although I feel pretty angry.

  It was the look on her face when we came out of the hospital appointment; the look she had all the way home. Stoical, stalwart, strong but bleak. She didn’t say the words, but I could hear them buzzing around in her head: ‘This is so typically Claire. To ruin everything just when it’s getting good.’

  ‘I’ll move in,’ she says, even though she blatantly already has, silently secreting herself in the spare bedroom, like I wouldn’t notice her, arranging her personal items on the shelf in the bathroom. I knew she would come when she found out. I knew she would and I wanted her to, I suppose; but I wanted to ask her, or for her to ask me. Instead she simply arrived, all hushed tones and sorrowful glances. ‘I’ll move into the spare room.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ I turn to look at her as she drives. She is a very careful driver, slow and exacting. I am not allowed to drive any more, not since I killed that postbox, which carried a far more expensive fine than you would perhaps imagine, because it belongs to Her Majesty. It must be the same if you run over a corgi: if you run over a corgi, you probably get sent to the Tower. My mother is such a careful driver, and yet she never looks in the rear-view mirror when she’s reversing. It’s like she feels that, in that one aspect, it’s safer simply to close her eyes and hope for the best. I used to love driving; I loved the freedom and the independence and knowing that, if I felt like it, I could go anywhere I fancied. I don’t like that my car keys have disappeared, gone without me being allowed even to kiss them goodbye, hidden away in a place where I will never find them. I know because I’ve tried. I could still drive, I think. As long as no one put anything in my way.

  ‘It’s not come to you moving in yet,’ I insist, although we both know she has already moved in. ‘There’s still lots of time left when I won’t need any help at all. I mean, listen to me. I can still talk and think about …’ I wave my arm, causing her to duck and look under my hand, which I tuck apologetically back in my lap. ‘Things.’

  ‘Claire, this isn’t something you can stick your head in the sand about. Trust me, I know.’

  Of course she knows: she’s lived through this before, and now, thanks to me, or strictly speaking thanks to my father and his rogue DNA, she has to live through it again. And it’s not as if I’ll do anything sensible like dying nice and neatly with all my faculties intact, holding her hand and thanking her, with a serene look on my face as I impart words of wisdom to live by to my children. No, my annoyingly quite young, reasonably fit body will linger on long after I’ve checked out of my mushy little brain, right up until the moment when I forget how to breathe in and out and in again. I know that’s what she is thinking. I know the last thing in the world she wants is to watch her daughter fade away and shrivel up, just like her husband did. I know it’s breaking her heart and that she’s doing her best to be brave, and stand by me, and yet … It makes me so angry. Her goodness makes me angry. All my life I’ve been trying to prove that I can grow up enough to not need her to rescue me all the time. All my life I’ve been wrong.

  ‘Actually, Mum, I am the one who can stick my head in the sand,’ I say, staring out of the window. ‘I am the one who can completely ignore what is happening to me, because most of the time I won’t even notice.’

  It’s funny: I say the words out loud, and feel the fear, there in the pit of my stomach, but it’s like it isn’t part of me. It really is like it’s happening to someone else, this terror.

  ‘You don’t mean that, Claire,’ Mum says crossly, as if she really thinks that I mean I don’t care, and not that I’m just saying it to annoy her. ‘What about your daughters?’

  I say nothing because my mouth is suddenly thick with words that won’t form properly or mean anything like what I need them to mean. So I stay quiet, looking out of the window, at the houses slipping past, one by one. It’s almost dark already; living-room lamps are switched on, TVs flicker behind curtains. Of course I care. Of course I’ll miss it, this life. Steam-filled kitchens on winter evenings, cooking for my daughters, watching them grow: these are the things I will never experience. I’ll never know whether Esther will always eat her peas one by one, and if she will always be blonde. If Caitlin will travel across Central America, like she plans to, or whether she’ll do something completely different that she hasn’t even dreamed of yet. I won’t ever know what that undreamed wish will be. They’ll never lie to me about where they are going, or come to me with their problems. These are the things I’ll miss, because I’ll be somewhere else and I won’t even know what I’m missing. Of course I bloody care.

  ‘I suppose they’ll have Greg.’ My mum sounds sceptical as she ploughs on, determined to discuss what the world will be like after I’m no longer in it, even though it shows a quite spectacular lack of tact. ‘That’s if he can hold it together.’

  ‘He will,’ I say. ‘He will. He’s a brilliant father.’

  I am not sure if that is true, though. I’m not sure if he can take what is happening, and I don’t know how to help him. He is such a good man, and a kind one. But lately, ever since the diagnosis, he is becoming a stranger to me day by day. Every time I look at him he is standing further away. It’s not his fault. I can tell he wants to be there, to be stalwart and strong for me, but I think perhaps the enormity of it all, of all this happening when really we’ve only just started out on our life together, is chipping away at him. Soon I won’t recognise him at all; I know I already find it hard to recognise the way I feel about him. I know he is the last great love o
f my life, but I don’t feel it any more. Somehow Greg is the first thing I am losing. I remember it, our love affair, but it’s as though I’ve dreamed it, like Alice through the looking glass.

  ‘You, of all people.’ Mum cannot help lecturing me, telling me off for being in possession of the family’s dark secret, like I brought it on myself by being so damned naughty. ‘You, who knew what it was like to grow up without a father. We need to make plans for them, Claire. Your girls are losing their mother and you need to make sure they will be OK when you aren’t capable of looking after them any more!’

  She brakes suddenly at a zebra crossing, causing a chorus of horns to sound behind her, as a little girl who looks far too young to be out on her own hurries across the road, huddled against the rain. In the glare of Mum’s headlights I can see she’s carrying a thin blue plastic bag with what looks like four pints of milk inside, bumping against her skinny legs. I hear the break in Mum’s voice, hovering just below the frustration and anger. I hear the hurt.

  ‘I do know that,’ I say, suddenly exhausted. ‘I do know that I have to make plans, but I was waiting, I was hoping. Hoping I might get to enjoy being married to Greg and grow old with him, hoping that the drugs might slow things down for me. Now I know that … well, now that I know there is no hope, I’ll get a lot more organised, I promise. Make a wall chart, keep a rota.’

  ‘You can’t hide from this, Claire.’ She insists on repeating herself.