My graduation photo wasn’t the only picture on display in the room, for the mantelpiece held several other frames. I walked over to examine them more closely. The first two I recognised: my parents on their wedding day, the dated fashions and hairstyles obliterated into insignificance by the brilliance of their smiles. I had always loved that picture. The next was the only photograph we still had of the three of us. It had been taken on a day trip to the seaside, and I stood between them on the pier, I can’t remember where exactly, one hand held tightly in the palm of each parent. The photograph suddenly began to blur and waver, and I felt overwhelmed, as I hadn’t in years, by a shaft of despair and loss for the mother I couldn’t even remember having.
There were still two photographs yet to examine. The first brought out a bubble of laughter, which was just the antidote I needed right then. It had been taken on a school sports day when I was about seven years old. In the picture Jimmy and I held between us a small silver cup for having won the three-legged egg and spoon race. It was the only race I think I ever won during my entire schooldays. Of course, I could have turned out to be a decathlete at university, who was to say? Our eyes shone out in the picture, a happy combination of pride, friendship and pure unadulterated happiness. We were both grinning from ear to ear, seemingly unaware that the huge gaps we sported in our front teeth did little to improve the picture.
The last photograph I hadn’t seen before, and I lifted it from the shelf and took it to the window to study it better. It was clearly taken quite recently, as I didn’t look any different than I had when I had seen my reflection that morning. The hair was the same, and so too was the unblemished face. The venue looked like a fancy hotel or restaurant; there were gifts piled in clusters upon the table in front of us and in the centre of the photograph were its main subjects: Matt and myself. His arm was tightly wound around my waist, his left hand encompassing mine, holding it aloft to allow the camera to capture the dazzling brilliance of the impressively large ring upon my finger. The radiance of the diamond seemed almost too bright to be contained by the small glass frame.
I turned swiftly, almost guiltily, as the rattle of tea cups heralded my father’s return. Hastily I replaced the photograph where it had come from.
‘Ring any bells?’
I shook my head sadly. ‘I remember those ones’ – I indicated the much older snapshots with a wave of my hand – ‘but I’ve never seen this one before in my life.’
My father lowered himself into an armchair, looking sad.
‘Nice ring though,’ I observed, trying to elicit some sort of smile from the man I was causing so much concern. ‘I bet he never got that one out of a cracker.’ There it was, the smile I’d been waiting for.
We sipped our tea in silence, the hot drink taking away the need for conversation. I hated to disturb the tranquillity of the moment but I had to prepare him for something important.
‘Dad, I’m expecting Dr Tulloch to call us later on. Let me know when he does, will you?’
Dad looked up, surprised.
‘What would he be calling about? Hasn’t he signed us over to that amnesia chap?’
I sighed, trying not to show how ‘amnesia’ was now my newest least favourite word.
‘Yes, well I left a message and asked him to find out something for me, and when he does I’m sure he’ll be calling us here. Don’t worry. It will all make sense then.’
My father looked a little bemused but agreed to let me know when the call came.
He was in the process of trying to persuade me that I might want to go and have a lie down while he prepared us some lunch, when we were both suddenly startled by an angry hissing and spitting sound as the black cat I had seen earlier landed on the settee beside me, took one look at me, and sped off across the room, the hackles on her back raised in a high ridge of fur.
‘What the heck…’ began my father, as the cat, halfway out the door, stopped in a scuffle of claws against the carpet, turned to look at me and gave a low angry growl.
‘Kizzy!’ shouted my dad in remonstration. ‘What’s got into you?’
I drew back a little in my seat, not certain if the angry feline was going to pounce. She continued to stare balefully at me across the room, claws out, eyes as staring as large green emeralds. With one last angry spit she turned and fled the room in a streak of fur and fury. My father and I stared at each other in amazement. I broke the silence first.
‘Does she usually do that?’
‘No. Never. I’ve never seen her act like that before in her life. That cat really adores you.’