Somewhere East of Life. Brian Aldiss

I am schizophrenic or not.’

      She shook her head, slightly. ‘You have a long way to go yet.’

      As he rose to leave, Rebecca Rosebottom said, ‘There’s just one thing.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I am allergic. Also my star sign is against black animals of any kind. So just don’t bring that frigging creature in here next session. OK? You don’t need any kind of baby surrogate. OK?’

      Burnell turned and stared at her. ‘Do you think there’s going to be a next session?’

      Hurrying from the clinic, letting the little cat free in the corridor, he made his way back to the ward, taking a route that led him past Dr Kepepwe’s office.

      He looked through her glass door. Rosemary Kepepwe was sprawled at the desk with her face buried in her arms. For an instant, he thought she was crying. Barker sat by her on the desk, regarding his mistress thoughtfully, wondering what action to take. Burnell went in.

      ‘Oh, these people!’ the doctor exclaimed, without being more specific. She ranted about them for some while before stating exactly what it was that had upset her. The military administration who would be taking over the hospital had just visited and left their orders. The first instalment of wounded from the Crimea was expected to arrive at first light on the following day. But before that – in just an hour or two – a squad of men from the RASC were going to arrive to repaint the interior of the hospital.

      ‘Does it need repainting?’

      ‘I always liked it blue and white. So fresh, you know.’ Dr Kepepwe mopped her eyes. ‘I like this hospital. I like working here. Barker likes it here, don’t you, Barker, my love? Blue and white create a cheerful healing atmosphere. These horrible army men are going to paint it all green today.’

      ‘Green! Why on earth?’

      ‘Dark green. Khaki green.’ She looked piteously at Burnell. ‘They say it’s for camouflage purposes.’

      Barker looked extremely serious.

      The corridors were already beginning to smell of paint when one of the small Asians showed Stephanie into Ward One.

      He heard her footsteps before he saw her. She entered with the air of someone determined to perform a duty not to her taste, with a firm jut to her jaw. Stephanie was tall, fair-haired, walking with ease inside a fawn linen suit, with a handbag slung over one shoulder. She held out a hand to Burnell, stepping back when he had shaken it. The hand was slender and cool. He liked the feel of it. Stephanie was fine-boned, delicate of countenance and strikingly attractive, he saw, only a slightly heavy jaw detracting from full beauty.

      He invited her to take the one chair in the room. Sitting on the end of the bed, he scrutinized her, trying to see behind the cautious smile.

      Keeping the pain from his voice, he explained that sections of his memory had been stolen by persons unknown. He had no idea where this had happened. It felt as if his head had been bitten off.

      ‘So I was told when Laura called me,’ Stephanie said. ‘By chance I was in Britain, so I came along. That’s what Laura said to do …’ She chattered for a while, possibly to cover nervousness. Suddenly she said, ‘Do you remember that my home is in California?’

      Burnell frowned. ‘We live in California? What for? Whereabouts? My work’s in Europe.’

      She rose from her chair to walk about the room. She complained of the smell of paint. He stood up politely, half-afraid she was about to leave.

      ‘This is terribly embarrassing for me, Roy. If Laura called you, she should have explained.’ She looked at him, then down at the floor, then towards the door.

      ‘Well? Explained what?’

      ‘Our divorce came through over four years ago.’ With a burst of impatience, ‘You mean you’ve even forgotten that?’

      Burnell sat down on the bed. ‘What are you telling me? You want to sit down or you want to walk about like a caged tiger?’

      She began to walk about like a caged tiger. ‘We got married. We got unmarried. Surely to God you must remember that! I live in Santa Barbara now, with Humbert Stuckmann. It just so happened I was over here in the Orkneys and I called Laura. Laura’s remained a friend. She told me you were here.’

      ‘So you came to see me.’

      ‘That’s obvious, isn’t it? I called the hospital and spoke to someone or other. They suggested I might trigger off a missing memory.’

      ‘If it’s missing, how can it be triggered off?’ He spoke abstractedly. The ocean was stormy indeed; indeed there was not a continent in sight. The Atlantis of his marriage was gone. Somehow he had loved this lady, won her, and lost her. By what fatal flaws of character?

      Stephanie had settled again in the chair and was talking in a formal way of crofters and dyes and looms far away. He was not hearing her. All he could find to say was ‘Humbert Stickmann? What kind of name is that?’

      ‘Don’t be superior. I hated it when you were superior. You used to treat me as if I was a child.’ She said he must have heard of Stuckmann Fabrics. Stuckmann fabrics and ceramics were famous world-wide. People worked for him in Scotland and even in Central Asia. Humbert, she did not mind saying it, was a genius. OK, so he was a bit older than her but he was a magical personality. Real genius. Loved colour. Always surrounded by admirers. Full to overflowing with occult knowledge which he beamed into his creations.

      When her outpourings had ceased, he spoke again.

      ‘This guy’s rich, Steff? Is that what you’re saying?’

      Stephanie brushed the envious question aside. She spoke of how a certain phase of the moon had led Humbert to design the pattern which crofters were now weaving for him in the Orkney islands.

      He interrupted to pose the question which could no longer be postponed: as to whether he and Stephanie had children.

      ‘Of course not.’ Her tone was cold. ‘I have a son by Humbert. And you may recall I have fought all my life to be called by my proper name of Stephanie. Not “Steff”. No one calls my man “Humb”. He’d kill them if they did. And by the way I have reverted to my maiden name of Hillington. I’m Stephanie Hillington.’

      And I don’t know you, Burnell thought. Nor do you wish to know me any more. He remarked on something else that must have changed: she had picked up an American accent. She gave him no answer.

      Looking defiantly at him, she made him drop his gaze. With a mixture of compassion and spite, she said, ‘Poor old Roy! So much for the past. Maybe you’ll find you’re better without it, as I am. I never think of it. Life’s rewarding and I live right smack in the present day.’

      She stood up as if to leave. In his confusion, he could think of no way to try to bridge the gulf between them.

      ‘This must be difficult for you, Stephanie. You must find this strange. Me, I mean. A crime has been committed against me. Apparently it happens. It’s a new sort of crime – people can always think up new ways to offend against decency … Tell me, when did we first meet?’

      ‘What a vile smell of paint. In the States, paint has no smell. What are they doing?’

      ‘When did we first meet?’

      She spoke gently enough and gave him a kindly glance which transformed her face. ‘We met in your father’s offices, one day in April, nine years ago. I was being interviewed for a job I didn’t get. You took me out to lunch.’ She smiled. ‘You ordered champagne.’

      ‘And we were in love? We must have been. Please …’

      The smile went. She was on her guard again. ‘Look, Roy, you’ve had other women since we split up. Laura tells me. You were a great chaser of women. But yes, if it satisfies your male pride, yes, we were in love. Quite a bit. It was fun while