man’s cap.
She saw someone selling the local daily, the
This wasn’t only about orientating herself in a strange place. If – as her injuries suggested – she had been in some sort of accident, it might have been reported in the local press.
She leafed through the pages. The story hadn’t made today’s edition, anyway.
Trying not to be disappointed, she put aside the paper and started another sandwich. People steadily crossed the yard carrying things that gave them a reason for being there – shopping, briefcases, musical instruments, library books, city maps or rucksacks, going about their lives in a way that made her envious. Seated here, watching them come and go, secure in their lives, Rose knew she was about to be overwhelmed by a tidal wave of self-pity. She had nowhere to go except that hostel.
Shape up, she told herself. It was stupid to let negative thoughts take over. Hadn’t everyone said her memory would soon be restored? They’d come across amnesia before. It wasn’t all that uncommon.
Even so, she couldn’t suppress these panicky feelings of what might be revealed about her hidden life. Who could say what responsibilities she had, what personal problems, difficult relationships, unwanted secrets? In some ways it might be better to remain ignorant. No, she reminded herself firmly, nothing is worse than ignorance. It cut her off from the life she had made her own, from family, friends, job, possessions.
Lady, be positive, she lectured herself. Work at this. Get your brain into gear. You are not without clues.
All right. What do I know? I’ve looked in the mirror. Age, probably twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Is that honest? Say around thirty, then. Clothes, casual, but not cheap. The shoes are quality trainers and reasonably new. The belt is real leather. The discarded jeans were by Levi-Strauss. My hair – dark brown and natural, fashionably short, trimmed close at the sides and back – has obviously been cut by someone who knows what to do with a pair of scissors. As for my face, well, they said at the hospital that I wasn’t wearing make-up when I was brought in, but it doesn’t look neglected to me. You don’t get eyebrows as finely shaped as these without some work with the tweezers. My skin looks and feels well treated, smooth to the touch, as if used to a moisturiser. The hands? Well, several of my fingernails were damaged in the accident – though I did my best to repair them with scissors and nail-file borrowed from one of the nurses – but the others are in good shape. They haven’t been chewed down, or neglected. I’m interested to find that I don’t paint my fingernails or toenails, and that in itself must say something about me.
No jewellery, apparently- unless someone took it off me. There isn’t the faintest mark of a wedding ring. Is there?
Rose felt the finger again. This was the horror of amnesia, not being certain of something as fundamental as knowing if she was married.
The injuries told some kind of story, too. Her legs were bruised and cut in a couple of places, apparently from contact with the vehicle that had hit her. The broken ribs and the concussion and the state of her clothes seemed to confirm that she’d been knocked down, but it must have been a glancing contact, or the injuries would have been more serious. The likeliest conclusion was that she’d been crossing a road and the driver had spotted her just too late to swerve. It was improbable that she’d been riding in another vehicle, or there would surely have been whiplash injuries or some damage to her face.
She walked the canal towpath for an hour before returning to the hostel, where she found a policewoman waiting. A no-frills policewoman with eyes about as warm as the silver buttons on her uniform.
‘I won’t keep you long. Just following up on the report we had. You
‘So I’m told.’
‘Then you haven’t got your memory back?’
‘No.’
‘So you still don’t know your name?’
‘The social worker called me Rose. That will have to do for the time being.’
The policewoman didn’t sound as if she would be calling her Rose or anything else. Not that sympathy was required, but there was a skeptical note in the questions. Jobs like this were probably given to the women; they weren’t at the cutting edge dealing with crime. ‘You remember that much, then?’
‘I can remember everything from the time I woke up in the hospital bed.’
‘The funny thing is, we haven’t had any reports of an accident yesterday.’
‘I didn’t say I had one. Other people said I did.’
‘Has anyone taken photos yet?’
‘Of me?’
‘Of your injuries.’
‘Only X-rays.’
‘You should get photographed in case there’s legal action. If you were hit by some driver and there’s litigation, it will take ages to come to court, and you’ll have nothing to show them.’
Good advice. Maybe this policewoman wasn’t such a downer as she first appeared. ‘Is that up to me to arrange?’
‘We can get a police photographer out to you. We’ll need a head and shoulders for our records anyway.’
‘Could it be a woman photographer?’
‘Why?’
‘My legs look hideous.’
The policewoman softened just a touch. ‘I could ask.’
‘You see, I’m not used to being photographed.’
‘How do you know that?’
It was a fair point.
‘If this goes on for any time at all,’ said the policewoman, ‘you won’t be able to stay out of the spotlight. We’ll need to circulate your picture. It’s the only way forward in cases of this kind.’
‘Can’t you leave it for a few days? They told me people always get their memory back.’
‘That’s not up to me. My superiors take the decisions. If an offence has been committed, a serious motoring offence, we’ll need to find the driver responsible.’
‘Suppose I don’t want to press charges?’
‘It’s not up to you. If some berk knocked you down and didn’t report it, we’re not going to let him get away with it. We have a duty to other road users.’
Rose agreed to meet the police photographer the same evening. She also promised to call at the central police station as soon as her memory was restored.
She was left alone.
‘Rose.’ She spoke the name aloud, trying it on in the bedroom like a dress, and deciding it was wrong for her. She didn’t wish to personify romance, or beauty. She went through a string of more austere possibilities, like Freda, Shirley and Thelma. Curiously, she could recall women’s names with ease, yet couldn’t say which was her own.
‘I’m Ada.’
Startled, Rose turned towards the doorway and saw that it was two-thirds filled. The one-third was the space above head height.
‘Ada Shaftsbury. Have they put you in with me?’ said Ada Shaftsbury from the doorway. ‘I had this to myself all last week.’ With a shimmy of the upper body she got properly into the room, strutted across and sat on the bed among the orange peel. ‘What’s your name?’
‘They call me Rose. It’s not my real name. I was in an accident. I lost my memory.’
‘You don’t look like a Rose to me. Care for a snack? I do like a Danish for my tea.’ She dipped her hand into a carrier bag she’d brought in.
‘That’s kind, but no thanks.’
‘I mean it. I picked up five. I can spare one or two.’
‘Really, no.’
Ada Shaftsbury was not convinced. ‘You’d be helping me. I’m on this diet. No snacks. Five Danish pastries isn’t
