The Wolf Who Cried Boy

3. Marie

With my right shoulder I forced the door open while in both hands I carried the suitcase that they had recovered from the scene of Paul's accident as I stumbled through the door of Chateau Cherise.

The day had been about as surreal as the days leading to Paul's discharge from hospital.

Everything at the hospital had been quite normal. Dr Carter had checked Paul's vital signs once more. Everyone had signed the paperwork. A nurse had wheeled Paul out to the car that Mr Valise had borrowed along with driver from Mr Sauvage to take us all home. We'd said goodbye to the nurses and doctors as they came to see us off. And then with Mr Valise up front with the driver and myself Paul and his mother in the back, we waved one last time as we pulled away from the hospital.

But as we drove further and further away from the hospital, so too did the care Paul's parents had given him in hospital grow distant. Paul's mother didn't even look at him as we drove. And when we hit patches of ground that rattled even my bones, Paul's father said nothing to the driver about being careful. I was the only one to make sure Paul was alright.

When we arrived back at Chateau Cherise, Mr Valise got out and opened the car door for his wife. I hurried out after her and raced around the back to open the left passenger door for Paul. His parents headed inside without a second glance, talking of a nice hot cup of coffee each. "Schew me, sisi," the driver, who had been pulling Paul's duffel case out of the boot, addressed me. "The baas wanted me to fetch him up at twelve," he looked nervously at his watch.

I checked my watch too. It was already heading for eleven o'clock. "Alright," I said feeling sorry for the driver, who was clearly terrified of his boss, Mr Sauvage. "Just leave the cases here and I'll take them in."

The driver nodded his grateful assent and hoisted the duffel case out of the boot and onto the ground. He did the same with a smaller bag and a laptop case. Then the driver hurried back to the driver's seat and drove off leaving Paul and I standing there with a large suitcase and two smaller bags to carry.

Paul made to grab the suitcase but I stopped him as he reached out. "You can't carry that heavy bag," I said feeling anxious. "You've just got out of hospital today." I grasped the two smaller bags and flung one over each shoulder. Then with both hands free I took hold of the duffel bag, staining under the weight but not willing to let Paul see. I couldn't quite understand why Paul's father hadn't done the gentlemanly thing and carried the bag for his injured son. With about as much strength as I could muster, I hauled the bag through the open door.

As I entered and, with a great thump, let the case drop on the floor, Mrs Valise was summoned by the noise. "Lovie," she said looking sympathetically at me. "You don't have to worry about carrying Paul's case. He can do that himself. We don't want to spoil him." She took the small case off my shoulders and dumped them on the ground then pulled me towards the kitchen. "Come and have some tea."

With amazing strength and gentleness, she pulled me into the kitchen and away from seeing Paul. Gently, she forced into one of the kitchen chairs. She seemed to be treating me like I was the one who just came out of hospital and not Paul. "Shouldn't we go help Paul with his luggage?" I asked pointing towards the kitchen door. "That bag is quite heavy." I was trying subtly to remind Paul's parents of their unwell son.

"Ya, no lovie," Mrs Valise responded quite airily as she put the kettle on and opened the cupboard to retrieve a mug "I'm sure he can manage."

"Besides," Mr Valise continued in a gruff tone. "You've done enough for that boy."

"Yes," Mrs Valise agreed with her husband. "You've had quite a rough few weeks, poor lovie. What with my boy and all. You need looking after."

Mrs Valise placed a mug of tea in front of me and held one between her own hands as she sat down opposite me, her eyes watching my every move. Her comments had reminded me, painfully, of when Paul had stood me up at Matric Farewell. She had also, then, been sympathetic and overly nice to me. But, I didn't know why I deserved it now. Surely her son was the one in need of sympathy.

The Valises, Knights, Sauvages and my parents all sat around the kitchen table discussing the remaining few weeks of our holiday. It appeared as though no one was all that bothered about Paul or his troubles and I couldn't fathom why no one seemed to care.

I should have known then that something was amiss. Mrs Valise had always been the sweetest woman I'd ever known. She sometimes understood me in a way that no one but my mother could. It was almost certain that if anyone needed her, she would be there. She had to have a reason for coldness.

But, at the time, I didn't think of possible reasons. I didn't think of anything except the injustice of it all.

A great crash came from beyond the kitchen that made me jump. "Oh Regina," my mother started as I heard the noise. Finally, I thought, someone who cares about Paul. "I have an absolutely amazing recipe for cherry cake. I must give you the recipe some time. My family all love it."

I let out a deep sigh. It truly seemed no one cared about Paul.

As everyone else at the table began discussing their favourite cakes, I drank the dregs of my tea and got up to leave the table. As I stood up, though, Mrs Valise turned to me. "Oh, Rosie lovie. Don't let Paul bully you," she admonished with a wag of her finger.

I turned around feeling an unusual sensation of confusion. Bully me. Why would Paul bully me.

The moment I stepped out of the kitchen and rounded the little phone table I saw Paul. He was weighed down with his luggage and kept staring at the doors around him completely perplexed. He walked up to a door, examined it, then turned and walked back to a different door.

I suddenly felt guilty for not having left the kitchen sooner as I watched his confused face grow more helpless. With tentative determination I took a few steps towards Paul. I opened my mouth to speak when Paul saw me and spoke first. "Um," he started when he saw me. "I was just looking for a room to sleep in. I'm not sure which room is mine."

That guilty feeling in me stirred even more. "Let me help you," I said quickly as I hurried to take his duffel bag. Beckoning him to follow, I led him to the room two doors down from my own which had always been Paul's and opened the door.

I had only been in the room twice as a kid but, much like my own room, everything still seemed the same. "This is your room," I told Paul as I carried the duffel to a wicker chair beside his chest of drawers. "Always has been, always will be, I think." I was trying to be casual but realised how ridiculous and rude I must have been sounding.

"Thanks," Paul said with a smile as he looked around the room. He didn't seem to notice my ridiculous comment and I wondered whether he was trying to remember. I watched as meticulously he began from the doorway, walking in an anticlockwise direction. At each object he passed, he would reach out his right hand and touch. For a moment, I watched bewildered then I realised that that must be a memory trick.

Feeling as though I was invading Paul's privacy a little, I asked him whether there was anything else he needed before leaving him to remember in peace. As I shut his bedroom door behind him, I wondered whether anything would trigger a memory – some long-forgotten recollection that would pop into his mind. Some memory that would make him laugh. Or maybe plunge him into darkness. I turned to look back at the door, wondering whether I should go back and be with him. What if he needed someone to hold his hand through the trial of remembering.

But, someone was calling emphatically from the kitchen and I was forced to return to find out what they wanted.

As morning bled into afternoon and afternoon into evening, I found myself becoming more and more concerned about Paul. He had been in his bedroom since I had left him and no one had spoken to him or checked on him once. I wanted to go and check on him myself but, every time I made to leave Mrs Valise's side, she would find some excuse to call me back.

Everyone seemed to be treating me as though I had been the one who had just been discharged from hospital. I was tempted with food or hot drinks; suggestions about movies or board games were made every time I tried to leave the living room or kitchen and; everyone kept their eyes glued to me, as though I was likely to collapse if they weren't watching. Worst of all, every time I mentioned checking on Paul, Mr or Mrs Valise would start looking nervous and would mumble something about Paul being more than capable of looking after himself and would make it impossible for me to leave.

As the clock struck eleven and my yawns became cavernous, I was finally allowed to leave and go to bed. Sleepily, I crawled under my quilt still feeling dismayed about Paul. I wasn't sure why but everyone seemed to be trying to keep me away from him. In addition, though Paul had only been out of hospital for a day, no one seemed to be concerned about him at all. With thoughts of Paul swirling in my mind, I dropped off into a restless sleep.

I woke up the next morning to pale morning sunlight gently creeping though a gap in my curtain. As I lay in bed, I realised that, in sleep, I had come up with a plan. With renewed vigour, I decided that, whatever anyone else said, I was determined to help Paul. I just had to make sure that, for at least a short while, Paul and I were alone.

Plotting how I was going to get everyone out of the house, I stepped into the shower and got dressed for another cool day on the mountain. As I stepped out of my room, though, I found an eerie stillness in the house. It seemed as if no one was awake yet. Strange, since my watch read nine o'clock. Quietly, I crept to the kitchen to get some tea. But, as I stepped over the threshold, I saw Paul seated at the kitchen table looking a little forlorn in his bathrobe. He brightened when he saw me. "I'm glad you're awake. It was getting lonely here," Paul uttered as I walked towards him.

"Is everyone else still in bed?" I asked him, feeling relieved as well that I wasn't the only one awake.

"Nope. They went out," Paul answered in that nonchalant manner of someone who believed that kind of behaviour to be completely normal. My expression must have betrayed my displeasure because Paul quickly added after, "They left a note for you, I think."

I took the scrap of paper Paul pushed towards me, sat down opposite him at the table and read the note out loud. "Dear Rosie. We have all gone out for the day on a trip to The Cow Shed. They have a distillery on their property that Mr and Mrs Knight are keen to see. You have been so busy lately that we didn't want to wake you. We'll be back a little later. Don't worry about Paul. He'll do his own thing. Enjoy a relaxing day. Mrs Valise."

A burst of anger rose up in me as I slammed the note on the kitchen table. How could everyone just leave Paul on his own like that? What were they thinking? How irresponsible! Then I realised that I had wanted them all out the way so I could help Paul in peace. And their visit to The Cow Shed meant exactly that – that I could help Paul without interference or hindrance.

Feeling a renewed sense of vigour, I stood up. "Has anyone made you breakfast yet, Paul?" I asked as Paul eyed me with a mixture of confusion and wonder. Paul shook his head. "Well, have you at least had a cup of something to drink?" I asked, feeling the answer was inevitable. He shook his head again and I realised as I sighed that I'd been holding my breath. "Alright," I continued in an airy tone. "First thing's first, would you like tea or coffee?"

Half an hour later, I had whipped up two slices of toast and two cups of steaming tea and I sat opposite Paul again to have my breakfast. "So," I started after we had each taken a bite of our toast, "have you managed to remember anything from before?" I tried to tread delicately with the question.

Paul shook his head as he chewed and swallowed. "Not much. I don't remember this place at all."

"Well, you haven't been here much. Not lately anyway. We used to come here every Christmas when were children." I explained feeling my cheeks flush for no reason.

"Really?" Paul questioned. "How long have we known each other for?

"

It felt kind of strange answering Paul's question. It felt almost as though I was talking about someone else or to someone else - rather than my childhood friend, Paul - as I spoke about our meeting as pre-schoolers on the estate.

Paul listened with rapt attention as I explained but I could see in his eyes that nothing I said was rekindling any sort of memory. I felt a little despondent that my first attempt had failed but I quickly decided to shake the disappointment off and keep going, for Paul’s sake.

"Thanks for the breakfast… Rosie." Paul said when he had taken the last sip of tea. I wasn't fooled by his sudden relapse in memory. I had seen him take a peek at the name on the note before using my name. I gave a slight chuckle in response.

"No problem," I said taking his plate and mug from him and standing up to put them in the dish washer. Paul got up too and seemed to be walking around the kitchen aimlessly. "Why don't you go into the living room – straight through there," I pointed at the kitchen doorway. “I'll be there in a minute." Looking as bewildered as ever, Paul ambled out the kitchen. I watched him go before opening the dishwasher door and beginning to pack our breakfast things in it.

There had to be a way of rekindling the memories Paul had lost. There had to be a way of reliving them so that Paul could remember. A plate clattered as it touched the metal rack. But, though I registered the noise, I didn't a take note of it nor what I was doing. My mind was buzzing with endless thoughts. Then, I suddenly I had an idea, like the flashbacks I was hoping for Paul.

Feeling excited, I hurried to put the dishwasher on before running out the kitchen and straight to my room to get my scrapbooks from my bookshelf. Armed with these, I dashed out of my room ready to head straight for the living room. But as as I hurriedly tore through my doorway and into the passage, I was too late to stop myself and collided in a great crash with Paul coming the other way.

"Oh dear! I'm so sorry." I apologised quickly as I tried to get up off the floor. Paul had somehow managed to stay on his feet. Staring up at him, I felt the strangest of sensations. My cheeks felt as if they were turning a brilliant scarlet and my face burned as though I was in the midday sun. I felt a heavy feeling in my chest, not unpleasant but not normal either. What was wrong with me? Quickly, I looked away and reached out for my scrapbooks that had landed on the floor.

When I turned back, I saw that Paul had reached out his hand to help me up. "My fault," he said, pulling me to my feet. "I shouldn't have been in such a hurry. Actually,” his tone changed in that instant, "I was coming to look for you." I might have asked what he wanted but his answer preceded my question. "It's rather embarrassing really. I kind of… I am in need… That is to say, I can't find my room again." Paul blurted out eventually. His face was very pink and he seemed to be avoiding my eye as though he was mightily embarrassed.

I chuckled slightly at his unnecessary embarrassment and led him back to his room. As I stepped inside, I noticed that not much had changed from my first visit the previous day. The room might have had a slightly more messy feel what with the unmade bed, the drawn curtains, the pile of clothes on the carpet and the bilging duffel bag but it still felt as though it was being occupied by a guest rather than its owner. As though Paul didn't really feel like he belonged in the room.

"It looks like you could use some help getting settled," I mentioned as I motioned to the clothes spilling from the duffel bag.

"What do you mean?" Paul asked in a small voice.

I smiled at the vulnerability of this question. "Well, for one thing we could put your clothes away in the cupboard so you’re not living out of a suitcase," I suggested. "And maybe we could make the bed and open the curtains too."

Paul nodded like a child. He looked around the room for a moment then walked to the bed. Grabbing the duvet with both hands, he tried to drag it upwards on the bed. But, his action only mussed the bed up even more. He tried to tug the duvet straight but it just moved askew again.

I watched Paul's movements for a moment and then I decided to spring to action. "Let me do that," I told Paul as I touched his arm to get him to stop. He stepped away from the bed and stared down at it as though it were some complicated puzzle he couldn't fathom. After placing my scrapbooks on the table, I ushered Paul to the chair, moving the messy duffel bag to the floor. Then with a dash of housewifeliness, I proceeded to make Paul's bed and open the curtains. Paul watched my every movement like a child who helplessly watches his mother.

With the room slightly more aesthetically pleasing, I set to work on the bilging duffle bag. "Maybe seeing all your clothes will help you remember again," I suggested as I hoisted the bag onto the bed. Paul got up and walked over to the bed to see. I unzipped the duffel bag before heading over to Paul's cupboard and opening the doors wide.

Paul really hadn't left much after his last visit to Chateau Cherise. Most of us left a selection of clothes in our cupboards at Chateau Cherise for whenever we visited. I almost never had to pack for our trips. I had a second wardrobe waiting for me. But Paul's cupboard was virtually empty except for two, decidedly out-of-place thick jerseys left on one shelf.

I walked back to Paul's suitcase and began to pluck items out of it. Pairs of black trousers, button-down white shirts, sleeveless black jerseys, a zip-up bag full of men's grooming products, another bag which rattled to touch. It was as though the world had suddenly become monochromatic - full of blacks, whites and greys. As I took each bland item out, I held it up for Paul to see. Paul touched the items too. But, as I soon realised, nothing in Paul's wardrobe would assist in the restoration of his memory. Each pair of pants, each shirt, each jersey was so ordinary, uninspiring, that no one would have had any luck in trying to remember from it. In fact, Paul's black and white outfits seemed so like the wardrobe of an investment banker or some other boring business mind and I couldn't help wondering whether Paul could change into someone more interesting before his memory returned. I couldn't help feeling torn between wanting Paul to remember and wanting Paul to change.

Feeling slightly hopeless, I put the last of Paul's belongings away and tried to cheer up for his sake. "Well, now that you're all unpacked, how about getting dressed for the day?" I suggested leading him to his en-suite bathroom. I silently prayed that at least the nurses in the hospital would have retaught him how to shower and shave before setting him on his unsuspecting friends and family. As much as I wanted to help Paul, I wasn't keen on trying to help him wash.

Fortunately, Paul seemed well trained and in an hour he had showered and was dressed in one of his many pairs of black pants and his blue jersey that had been on his shelf. Picking my scrapbooks up off the table where I had left them, I led Paul into the living room. "I remembered I have these," I said holding out the three scrapbooks as we walked. “I thought maybe looking at these would help your memory.

Paul didn’t say anything but I forged ahead, determined to try and help Paul regain his memory. I sat down in one of the couches and Paul sat opposite me, eyeing the scrapbooks. It seemed he too was anxious, perhaps also to see whether they would help.

"Ma, maybe we could start with the more recent past and work our way back," he said with a nervous edge to his voice.

Something inside me gave a jolt and I felt that guilty sinking sensation again. "Um, Paul," I said with my hand on one of the scrapbooks that lay on my lap. "Um, I didn't tell you this at the hospital, well, because I didn't want to upset you, but we haven't really been speaking for a few years now.”

Paul's eyes gazed innocently into mine. "Why not, Violet?" he asked, getting my name wrong again.

I ignored his memory lapse. I was trying to find the words to explain. "Well, I, uh, you," I began tentatively. I took a deep breath and tried to explain without sounding accusing. It didn't sound too bad given that telling Paul about himself made me feel as though I was talking about someone else. Paul's big eyes kept blinking at me all the way through my story as though he were listening intently to every word I said – like I was telling him a story.

When I had finished, Paul continued to look at me for a moment. "I took someone else to the dance instead of you?" he asked looking bewildered. "Oh Violet, I'm so sorry. I don't know why I would have done that. You're so pretty." The childlike way Paul said this might not have made me feel anything, were it not for the fact that his apology had sounded the most sincere I had ever heard anyone give. It truly sounded as though he was terribly ashamed of his former self.

I gave him a reassuring smile. "Oh well. Never mind. It was a long time ago now."

I took the scrapbook off my lap and flicked through it, longing for another topic of conversation. "Ah," I said seeing the pictures. "I think this was the last time we came to Chateau Cherise together," I explained, holding the scrapbook out for Paul to take. "That shot is the funniest," I chuckled pointing to a picture of Paul, Mr Valise and I posing with a fishing rod.

"Your dad wanted to do some fishing. He decided to take up with. Ooh," I cringed at the memory, "he got so mad at us. He kept trying to catch a fish, you see, using his secret recipe" - I held up my hands to make air quotes - "fishing bait. He said it was guaranteed to catch any fish." I laughed at the memories that sprang up in my mind. "He would have caught lots too except that I was a little way down stream. After I saw how the first fish had a hook embedded in its lip which your dad gingerly ripped out before chucking the fish back, I couldn't let that happen to any more. So every time your dad looked as though he had got a bite, I would grab the line, pull the fish out, gently unhook the fishhook and then release the fish. Your dad couldn't figure out how the fish was getting the bait without getting hooked." I laughed again.

Paul was laughing too though it looked like he was still battling to recall this funny memory. "What was I doing while all this was going down?"

"Oh," I responded looking up at Paul. "That was the other reason your dad was getting so confused and frustrated. After he told us about his guaranteed fish bait, you got it into your head that the other fishermen might like to buy fish bait that would guarantee them a fish. You decided to start selling your dad's fishbait to the nearby fishermen but you didn't tell your dad. You just kept sneaking up behind him during a big catch and taking more bait." I was now laughing so hard that tears were streaming down my cheeks and my sides hurt. I could hardly get the words out.

"So your dad sat there all day wondering how the fish kept getting hold of his bait without getting hooked and why he was using up so much bait. It was driving him mad. I sat there watching him stare at the packet of bait and then his hook, trying to figure out what was going on. When he finally found out what we'd been up to, he was so mad. But, I think he felt more ridiculous that he hadn't figured out sooner. We'd spent all day unconsciously making him look like a raving idiot."

Paul was still laughing as he looked at the picture that had sparked this funny memory. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "We've had some good times together." His voice dropped to a mumble. "I just wish I could remember them."

Our laughter still hung in the air but we had both gone silent. My momentary bout of amusement had died and I was feeling guilty again. Poor Paul. While I had all these memories of visits to Chateau Cherise and all the adventures we had gone on, Paul had no memories. He couldn't even remember my name.

Paul’s comment about us having good times "together" had also deepened the guilt. Though my version of the story hadn’t really emphasised the fact, the fishing trip that year had really shown how different Paul and I were. While I had been concerned for the fish and anxious to help, Paul had his mind set on making a profit. We hadn't spent much time together that day. I had watched and laughed at his antics from afar. I wasn't even sure that the Paul who could remember that day had known what I was up to while he was stealing bait.

Trying to shake the guilt that was beginning to eat away at me again, I turned the page of the scrapbook and pointed out the next set of pictures that I hoped would inspire a memory. I think Paul was hoping the same. With every picture I pointed out and began to explain what was happening, Paul would gaze greedily at the picture, then stroke it gently, as though it were a kitten. But, when no spark of recognition would appear on his face, I would sigh and turn the page.

I had just opened the second scrapbook and was about to start telling Paul our stories again when a knock at the door brought me out of my reminiscence. Handing the scrapbook over to Paul to look at "for now", I hurried to the front door and opened it.

A man with a clipboard stood just outside the door. I spotted his red delivery truck idling a few metres away with another man inside. "Looking for Mr Valise," the man said in a monotonous and slightly uptight kind of way. He handed me the clipboard and I read the name "P. Valise" on the form. Instantly I went into defensive mode and stepping out into the cold winter air, I quickly peeked in to make sure Paul was still contently sitting looking at the scrapbook before I grabbed the door handle and gently shut the door behind me.

"Um," I began wondering how to put what I had to say. "Mr Valise… well, he's unfortunately not himself. He's got a rather serious case of amnesia and he may not know why he's received a package or who it’s from.

The delivery man did not look amused. "Look lady," he said sounding annoyed. "I don't care. I have a lot of deliveries to make and this is far out of my drop-off zone. I'm just happy as long as someone who knows Mr Valise signs for this package. Then I can get out of here." Clearly, this man was not going to help me help Paul. I took the clipboard again, my whole body tense with irritation, and signed where he pointed before handing him his clipboard back and waiting for whatever he was delivering.

The man walked back to the truck as the other man got out. The two walked behind the truck and opened up the back. I watched wondering how big the parcel for Paul was. But I didn't have long to wait. In a few short moments, I was staring open-mouthed at a large, flat, brown box similar in size to the eight-seater dining table I had seen at my colleague's house. It took all the strength in both men to carry it because of its bulk and even then they staggered left and right as they tried to navigate from the truck to the door.

I was about to open the door so that they could bring the large box through and into the house but as they reached the door they put it down and before I could protest the delivery men had piled back into the truck and had disappeared from view. I was left standing staring at a box that was bigger than I was and wondering how I was going to get it from its spot propped up against the wall outside and into the house.

For the second time in two days, I staggered into Chateau Cherise with my arms full. Paul blinked at me in wonder as I nearly overbalanced and then came over to offer me his help. After he insisted and I nearly fell again, we both steered the box into the living room and propped it up on the couch.

Paul stared at it for several seconds before I prompted him by telling him that the box was his. "What is it?" He asked looking from the great box to me.

I shrugged. "Maybe if you open it, it might remind you of something," I said feeling an ever increasing curiosity to know what was in the box myself. With my help, Paul got the box open and pulled out the contents which was a huge painting in a wooden frame.

Then, instead of the huge brown box, Paul and I were staring at a huge painting. I hoped that the painting would somehow give Paul a memory flashback but it seemed from his confused expression that that was not the case. I also wondered as I stood staring at this painting why it had been delivered to Paul. As far as I knew Paul, he wasn't particularly keen on artwork. He had never shown much interest in art of any kind even the rudimentary art projects we'd done as small children at school. Had he suddenly developed a taste in art? It couldn't have been the subject-matter that had interested him because the painting was a rather dull picture of a piano in what looked to be a library –from the backdrop of books. I knew that Paul had never been interested in the piano – he much preferred drums – and the library setting didn't remind me of the Paul I had known at all.

"I'm not sure I like that," Paul's words brought me back to the situation at hand. "Was I ever interested in this kind of thing?"

Again I had to shrug. "Not that I ever remember," I answered shaking my head.

We stood side by side for a while again looking at the painting. It didn't look like a very inspiring painting. It seemed well-executed – from my limited experience with artistic works – but it was just a picture of a piano in a library. I tried the trick of tilting my head from side to side but it made no difference to my judgement.

After some time of unsuccessful staring I turned to Paul again. "Is it reminding you of anything?" I questioned, not holding my breath for the answer I wanted.

Paul shook his head vigorously. "Not a thing, Marie. Except perhaps that I don't think I like what I'm looking at."

The rest of his remark was lost on me. He had just called me by the wrong name again and I was starting to get worried. When Paul had been lying in hospital, his mother had daily informed him that my name was Rosie. He was remembering most of what had happened since the accident so why could he not remember my name? He had called me by the wrong name twice today alone. First Violet and then Marie. I could still understand Violet since it was the name of a flower, a bit like mine. But Marie? Marie! That wasn't even close to correct. I began to worry whether Paul's memory would ever return or whether he was heading in the opposite direction. By the number of times he'd given me, his oldest childhood friend, the wrong name, it certainly seemed like the latter was the case.

"Let's take the painting to your room," I suggested, finding little else to say. Together we hoisted the painting up and gently slid it back in its box before lifting it up and aiming for Paul's room. "Maybe having the painting in your room where you can see and ponder it will help your memory," I continued as we stumbled along. Paul said nothing in response and we continued to heave the extremely heavy painting into Paul's room, where we set it down near the foot of his bed.

Paul and I sat down together on his bed, both staring at the painting. For a moment, all was silent as I looked for something that would tell me why Paul – past or present – would want this painting. It was a riddle I was struggling to untangle.

"Iris," Paul piped up in his innocent way, bringing me out of my ponderings. "I… I was just wondering,” he paused as if he didn't know how to phrase what it was he wanted to say. "I, I know that you said we nearly went to that dance together. But, I, I was just wondering, were we ever – you know – together – properly, I mean?"

Paul's question took me completely by surprise – mostly because I had had a secret crush on Paul for months before our Matric dance. A burning heat rose into my face as though I was sitting too close to a fire. I couldn't look Paul in the eye – though I could see out the corner of my eye, that he continued to stare at me with that innocent expression on his face. His look was one of quiet expectation. "We were just children," I explained, rather unsuccessfully. "We played together and did homework together but I don’t think we ever thought about more than that."

The sound of keys in a lock, a few seconds later, was a welcome relief. It prevented me from being asked any more awkward questions. Jumping to my feet and mumbling "their home," I led the way out of Paul's bedroom and into the living room just in time to see a plastic bag being held up and Mrs Valise singing, "we're home. And we brought lunch."

Mrs Valise walked through the door smiling. But, the smile very soon melted from her face like wax when she saw Paul standing beside me. "I thought I told you, boy, to get on with your own thing and leave poor Rosie alone," Mrs Valise snapped at her son.

"She's been helping me," Paul explained with a touch of childish sweetness. "We've been trying to get my memory back.”

Mrs Valise snorted indignantly at this explanation and hooking her arm through my elbow led me off to the kitchen. "Honestly, dear," Mrs Valise addressed me as she led me to my chair, "there's no need to go to all this trouble with him. He doesn't deserve it.”

I was about to ask Mrs Valise why her amnesiac son didn't deserve our help when the others came through into the kitchen talking raucously about their favourite cheeses and I was forced to put my question on hold. Still, Mrs Valise's obvious contempt towards her son confused and annoyed me. It was as though his amnesia exasperated her. Yet, her attitude seemed completely out of character. Added to my annoyance was everyone else's attitude towards Paul – their obvious contempt towards a man who was unwell. It frustrated me.

But, this was only the beginning of my irritation. As the afternoon wore on – an afternoon in which I was again watched as though I was ill – I felt myself getting more and more annoyed with how nice everyone was being to me and how, contrastingly, callous they were being to Paul. My fury culminated when, as I sat with my book in hand and my feet propped up, Mrs Valise piped up, "We feel so bad that you spent the whole morning looking after Paul when you should have been looking after yourself."

"But," Paul's father continued with a gruff-sounding voice, . "We want to make it up to you." He then produced a bottle of my favourite lemonade from a country stall in Curry's Post and handed it to me like it was a trophy. I took the bottle and thanked him, feeling a little unworthy.

"We also got you something," my father declared, clearly not wanting to be upstaged by Mr Valise. My father then produced a tub of my favourite ice-cream which he said was all mine to enjoy. I thanked my parents too feeling my cheeks begin to flush. I wasn't sure if it had to do with all the undeserved attention I was receiving or if it had more to do with the fact that everyone seemed to be pampering me and not the person who actually needed a bit of pampering, Paul.

"Oh now, don't forget about our little gift," Mr Knight piped up as he handed me a book. "We got that from the Cow Shed. There's some great veterinary references in there that we thought might interest you." Again I awkwardly thanked him and felt terribly self-conscious with nearly the whole household crowded round me now.

"And we," Mr Sauvage added, "are goin' to order zee dinner tonight. We thought of pizza. Would you like zat?"

I thanked everyone again for their gifts and finally broke away from the crowd on the pretext of putting my gifts away. A mixture of embarrassment, annoyance and shame threatened to spill out as I walked to the freezer to store my ice-cream. My cheeks burned, in spite of the biting chill of the freezer, as I thought about the unwarranted attention I was receiving. I slammed the freezer door and opened he fridge to put the undeserved lemonade away. Why was I allowing all this attention? Why was I letting everyone pet me like this? I slammed the fridge door and marched out of the kitchen to put the book that felt hot even in my hands away where it couldn't remind me of my unworthiness – couldn't make me feel guilty.

I saw Paul in the passage looking lost as he walked up and down from one door to the other. He smiled and waved and shrugged his shoulders to let me know he was lost again. I smiled back at him and walking past, tapped the door that was his. He waved me his thanks and walked in. At least, it seemed, Paul was suffering little ill effect from being virtually ignored by everyone. Perhaps his memory-loss was helpful in shielding him from the injustice of the situation.

Mrs Valise refused to let Paul sit with us during our casual supper that evening. She simply thrust a plate of pizza slices at Paul and watched him walk away. My anger grew as I watched Paul shuffle quietly off in the direction of the passage.

I was sullen and quiet as I ate, willing everyone to notice that I was angry about something – willing them to ask what was wrong. My body shook slightly with rage whenever I thought of Paul alone in the passage – probably unable to find his room.

But, it seemed that everyone else put my silence down to simple exhaustion and as supper drew to an end, Mr Sauvage suggested I needed an early night. Still feeling infuriated, I forced myself up and told everyone loudly and defiantly that I was going to bed.

I was only slightly relieved when I didn't find Paul looking lost and perplexed in the passage again.

With my mind still on the injustices poor Paul had to endure, I stomped over to my dressing table and wrenched open my laptop. With a huff of indignation I sat down and tried to calm myself by thinking of something else. My mind alighted on the painting that Paul had received and, in all the injustice, I had forgotten to ask about.

With my fingers poised on the keyboard, I wondered how I might search for Paul's painting. I started by typing in the search bar for paintings of pianos. No success. I then typed in about paintings of drawing rooms, music rooms and libraries. That didn't yield any results either.

Sighing sleepily, my eyes hurting, I closed my laptop and got ready for bed. As I crawled beneath the covers, I wondered again whether Mr or Mrs Valise could shed any light on the mysterious painting. But, the thought of Paul's parents made me angry again and I forced myself to put them out of my mind as I felt my body gently drift off to sleep.