Thankfully, it turns out they do salt the roads, even this far out of town, but as I turn off onto the rural station lane I see the council budget obviously doesn’t stretch this far. When I reach the station entrance Joe’s waiting, ankle-deep in snow, beaming from ear to ear, the only one on the platform. He pulls me into a hug as soon as he jumps into the car. He holds me tight for a long time, my left leg jamming hard against the hand brake, but I don’t pull away, I need his love.
“There you are,” he says.
“Here I am,” I agree, head buried in his jacket, safe for a second.
I suggest we head back to Cuckoo Lodge and have some hot chocolate before we head out for a cold walk along the beach. Joe’s already wrapped up warm in a Barbour and wellies but I need to grab some boots.
Joe keeps the conversation ticking over on the short drive, diplomatically sensing I’m not quite ready to talk about anything more serious just yet. He tells me Mum’s fine with me being here, whatever I need to do for myself I should do, she says. He tells me about his little Chloe and her new obsession with his briefcase. I’m glad of the distraction. I need to clear my head and reset my bearings before I can talk to someone else about what’s happening here. I knew I needed Joe.
I sense him tense slightly when we pass a sign for Burnham Market, at least twenty miles from Holt and our old house. No one else but me would notice, but the story he’s telling me about Chloe gets a little louder, a little funnier.
He hasn’t been back here either since it happened. I’ve forced him back. He’s here for me. I glance across at his face as he talks, and I wonder how he stayed so well adjusted, so sane. So lovely. With his job and his wife and his gorgeous baby girl. I’m not jealous, I’m amazed, and incredibly grateful to have someone like him in my life.
As I pull down the drive leading up to Cuckoo Lodge, Joe gives a low whistle of appreciation. I feel an odd sense of pride. The house is beautiful, especially in the snow, and because Joe’s an architect, its beauty isn’t wasted on him.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” he murmurs. “This is where they put you? This is part of the Holkham estate, right?”
“I don’t know, is it? It’s definitely Victorian.”
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.”
I laugh and he leans forward to study the chimneys, the cornicing, through the windshield.
“You like?” I tease.
—
I make us our hot chocolates and we carry them out into the back garden with some blankets so we can enjoy the winter sun on our faces.
And almost immediately Joe broaches the subject we’ve both been evading. “So, shouldn’t you be at work? Isn’t that what they’re paying you for?” He smiles and sips his chocolate.
“I thought you were supposed to be encouraging me to work less!” I say with a surprised laugh, but inside I feel a sharp pang of guilt. My patient is still ill, I could be doing something, but instead of working I am here. I know I can’t work seven days a week, but time off always make me uneasy. “There’s not really much I can do at this stage, Joe. My patient’s talking now, but his memory is limited. And yesterday was pretty intense. I told him to take it easy today. I’ve got a big day planned tomorrow and he needs to rest. I’m going to take him on a trip, visit some places that might trigger some memories. He must have got to that beach somehow; we’ll try the roads nearby, local stations, anywhere he might have been just prior to being found. He’s making me a list today of anywhere he can think of that might help. But aside from that there’s really nothing I can do. And I’m on call, if anything comes up. I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“Em, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asks when I’ve finished. He’s no longer smiling. “Or have you just invited me down here for my sparkling conversation?”
“Oh God, Joe! Okay, here it is. It’s so—well, it’s beyond weird,” I blurt out. “The patient, he knows who I am. My patient.”
“Isn’t that a good sign?” He hasn’t grasped what I just said. He’s grinning.
“No. No, it’s not, Joe. He knows my real name.” I feel a selfish relief when I see his smile freeze. Because now I know it’s not just me going through this anymore. Misery loves company. “He called me Marni. He knows what happened. He knows all about Dad.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. Yesterday morning he just started talking, out of the blue. He said he needed to talk to me and when he didhe said he was sorry, Joe. About what he did, to us, to everyone. He said he was sorry I burnt my fingers.” I let that fact hang in the air between us.
Joe grimaces and empties his drink into the snow. After a moment he asks, “Who does he think he is? Dad?” He’s deadly serious now.
“I think so, yes.”
“Christ! And you do too, don’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Joe, of course I don’t. He’s about twenty years younger and he looks nothing like him. I just, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here. What the fuck is going on here?” I want to weep.
“Do you recognize him at all?”
“No.”
“He’s not one of Dad’s old work friends or something?”
