Chapter 25 Chapter Twenty-Four

"You must not be reckless." "I'm going to kill him." "time to go." There could have been more to talk about, but they seemed exhausted.Maybe it was because of her presence; maybe the topic itself was a pain in the ass; maybe they just wanted to be alone with each other.In either case, they clearly felt the meeting was over.Curiosity is exhausted.Everything can wait until she writes.Robbie grabbed his hat and jacket from the bedroom.Briony noticed the horizontal bar rank of corporal on his shoulder. Cecilia said to him: "Nothing will happen to him, she will always cover him."

She began to look for her ration book, but after several minutes of searching, without finding it, she said to Robbie, "It must be in the Wiltshire cottage." The three of them were about to leave.Robbie opened the door for the sisters."I feel we owe an apology to the able sailor Hardman," he said. Mrs. Jarvis did not appear when they went downstairs and passed through the drawing room.All they heard was the clarinet playing on her radio.Walking through the front door, Briony felt as if she had stepped into a new day.A violent wind and sand blew, and the street was refreshed all of a sudden, the sun seemed to be stronger, and the shadows were less.There is no space for three people to walk side by side on the sidewalk.Robbie and Cecilia walked behind her holding hands, and Briony felt her blistered heels rub against her shoes.But she was determined not to let them see her limp.She thought they were only sending her to the door.She turned away at one point and told them she'd be happy to walk to the subway station alone.They insisted on sending her, however, saying they were going to buy Robbie something for the road anyway.They walked all the way in silence.Small talk is inappropriate at this time.Briony knew she had no right to ask her sister for her new address, or ask Robbie where the train was taking him, or the cottage in Wiltshire.Could it be that the blue ling grass came from there? There must be a romantic interlude.Nor could she ask when exactly the two of them would meet again.There is only one common topic between her, her sister and Robbie, and this topic is fixed in the unchangeable past.

They stand outside Belham Tube station.Three weeks later, the station would be shot to fame during Nazi Germany's air raids on London.A group of people who always shop on Saturdays walked around them, keeping them close together.The farewell was cold and bland.Robbie reminded her not to forget to bring money when she went to a lawyer to swear an oath.Cecilia told her not to forget to bring the address to Surrey.That's it, it's all over.They stared at her, waiting for her to go.However, there was one thing Briony hadn't said yet. She said slowly, "I'm very, very sorry that I've made you suffer." They continued to look at her, and she repeated, "I'm so sorry."

It sounded so stupid, so out of place, as if she'd knocked over a precious houseplant, or forgotten someone's birthday.Robbie said softly, "Just do whatever we ask of you?" It was almost a gesture of conciliation.You see, the word "as long as" is used more often, but this is not a reconciliation, not yet. She replied, "Of course." Then turned her head and walked away, feeling that they were watching her from behind.She walked into the ticket hall, came to the opposite side of the hall, and she paid for the ticket.When she got to the ticket office and looked back, they were gone.She showed her ticket and entered the dim light.A creaking escalator topped it and it carried her down.There was an artificial breeze blowing from the dark.That is the breath of a million Londoners.It cools her face and tugs at her cloak.She stood motionless as she descended the escalator.It's nice to be able to get down without walking.Her foot hurts.She was amazed at how calm she was, and how slightly sad she was.Did she come back disappointed? She didn't expect them to forgive her.She felt more like homesickness, but there was no reason for that—she was homeless.However, she felt very disappointed when she left her sister.She missed her sister, or rather, she missed her sister and Robbie.Neither the war nor Briony destroyed their love.She was genuinely relieved that the elevator had carried her beneath the city.Just now, Cecilia used her eyes to draw him to her side, how charming those eyes were.She recalled him from memory, from Dunkirk, from the road to Dunkirk.How gentle is that calling voice.And that night, when Cecilia rescued her from her nightmare and carried her to her own bed, she said to her: "Wake up, Briony, it's just a nightmare. Wake up, Briony." This unthinking act of family love was easily forgotten.At this moment, she stood on the escalator and slid down slowly, passing through the muddy dark brown light, almost reaching the bottom.There were no other passengers in sight at this time.The air suddenly froze.She calmly considered what to do.Drafting notes to parents and formal statements doesn't take much time.The rest of the day, she was free.She knows what to do.What was drafted was not just a letter, but a new draft, a kind of atonement.She's ready to start.

London 1999 These days are really unusual.Today is my seventy-seventh birthday.In the morning, on a whim, I decided to visit the library of the Royal Military Museum in Lambeth for the last time.This suits my peculiar state of mind.The library's reading room is housed in the dome of this building, which was formerly an annex to the Royal Bethlehem Hospital - the former Bedlam Asylum.Where once the insane came to pray, now scholars gather to discuss the collective insanity wrought by war.The car the family sent to pick me up wasn't until after lunch, so I figured I'd take a break, proofread the minutiae one last time, say goodbye to the archivist, and be with me through these harsh winter weeks. The porters I ran up and down said good-bye to; I also intended to donate to the archives the dozen or so long letters that old Mr. Nuttle had written to me.I think it would be a birthday present for myself to spend an hour or two pretending to be busy, and then frantically doing housework to pass the time.Yesterday afternoon, in the same mood, I was busy in my study.Now, the drafts are organized and dated, the copied materials are labeled, and the borrowed books are ready to be returned. Everything is ready.I've always liked crispness.

It was cold and wet, and I found it too much trouble to take the bus, so I took a taxi at Regent's Gardens.On the long, slow journey to central London, I thought of the sad asylum patients who had been entertained by the public.I felt sorry for myself at the thought that I would soon be joining their ranks.The scans came back, so, yesterday morning, I went to the doctor and it wasn't doing well.As soon as I sat down, the doctor told me so.I have a headache and a tight feeling in my temples. The cause is very special and very mysterious.He noted grainy stains in the scanned area.I found the pencil in his hand quivering, and I wondered if he, too, was suffering from a nervous disorder.I thought it would help cure the disease, and I hope he really does.He said I was having a small, almost imperceptible stroke, a slow one, but my mind, my sanity, was going to crumble.The memory decline that afflicts us all will be more pronounced and more senile, until finally I am unconscious because then I will lose the ability to comprehend anything.The day of the week, what happens in the morning, or even what happened ten times before would be beyond my comprehension.My phone number, my address, my name and everything I've done in my life will be wiped out.In another two, three, or four years, I won't recognize my existing old friends.When I wake up in the morning, I won't realize I'm in my room.Soon, I won't be able to take care of myself because I will need lifelong care.

The doctor told me that I had vasogenic dementia, which was a bit of a relief.He must have mentioned many times that collapse is a slow process.Plus, it's not as bad as Alzheimer's disease.Alzheimer's disease can cause dramatic changes in temperament and a tendency to be aggressive.If I'm lucky, my disease may be benign.It is unlikely that I would be unhappy--me, a clouded, queer, chattering old woman, sitting in a chair, knowing nothing and expecting nothing.I asked him to tell me the truth, so I have nothing to complain about.At this moment, he was eager to rush me out, because there were twelve other people waiting anxiously in the waiting room.Anyway, as he helped me put on my coat, he outlined a road map: memory loss, short and long-term loss of words—common nouns might be the first to go without saying goodbye—and then language itself, and balance, tight Then, the whole motor control system, and finally the automatic nervous system, all said goodbye to me one by one.Have a safe trip!

At first, I wasn't sad.On the contrary, I felt a little elated, and wanted to hasten to tell the news to my closest friends.I spent an hour on the phone with this breaking news.Maybe I'm losing control.This is obviously too important.I toiled slowly in the study all afternoon, and by the time I finished, six boxes of files had been added to the bookshelf.Stella and John came to see me in the evening.We ordered a few Chinese dishes, they clinked glasses, drank two bottles of Morgan wine, and I drank green tea.My lovely best friends were overwhelmed by my description of the future.They're all in their sixties, and they're starting to delude themselves into thinking that seventy-seven is still young.Today, as I plodded through London in a cold winter rain, I had no other thoughts.I told myself I was going crazy.Don't drive me crazy.But I feel that I can't lie to myself.Maybe I'm just a victim of modern diagnostics.In another century, maybe people will say that I am old, so my brain has degenerated.What else can I hope for? I'm just dying, and gradually, I don't know everything, I don't know everything.

The taxi rides through the back streets of Bloomsbury, past the house where my father lived when he remarried, past the basement flats where he lived and worked during the decade of the fifties.People over a certain age have a lot to think about when walking through the city.The places where the deceased once lived are piled up like mountains.We cross the square, where Leon heroically nurses his wife and then raises his rambunctious children with astonishing sincerity.Someday, I'll fill the imagination of a passenger in a speeding taxi.We took a short cut along the inner circle of Regent's Gardens.

The car is driving on the Waterloo Bridge across the great river.In order to enjoy the city scenery, I leaned forward and sat on the edge of the chair.Turning your head and looking, you can see St. Paul's Cathedral down the river; up the river, you can see Big Ben.Between them, the scenery of London is vivid and unobstructed.I suddenly felt that my body was comfortable and my spirit was bright, but I just had a slight headache and felt a little tired.Despite my haggard appearance, I still feel that I still look good.It's hard for young people to appreciate this, and it's hard for me to explain it to them.We may look like reptiles, but we are not aliens.In another year or two, however, I will not be qualified to make this familiar assertion.Once a person is terminally ill and insane, he becomes a different kind, a group of inferior species.Nobody can convince me.

We were forced to take a detour to the old town hall as the road on the bridge was under construction and the driver yelled at me.As we rounded the circle and headed towards Lambeth, I caught a glimpse of St Thomas' Hospital.It survived the German Blitz raids in 1940 - thank god I wasn't there - and the rebuilding of the building and clock tower is a national disgrace.During this time, I worked at three hospitals: Aldhay Hospital, Royal East Sussex Hospital and St Thomas' Hospital.I combine them in the description, bringing all my experiences together in one place.Doing so does distort the truth, but it's purely for convenience, and it's the least affront I can make to authenticity. It was raining lightly, and the driver quickly made a 180-degree turn and drove the car from the middle of the road to the main gate of the museum.I was so busy packing my bags, pulling out twenty-pound notes, and opening my umbrella, I didn't notice the car parked directly in front of me until the taxi pulled away.It was a Rolls-Royce sedan.For a moment, I thought it was left unattended.In fact, the driver sat behind the steering wheel, only because he was so small that he could hardly be seen.I'm not yet sure if what I'm describing below is really an astonishing coincidence.Whenever I see a Rolls sedan parked without a driver, I think of the Marshalls.This has been a habit for many years.They pop up in my head a lot, but don't stir up any emotional ripples.I'm used to it.They still appear here and there in the newspapers, where their foundations and their outstanding achievements in medical research are published, or when they donate their private collections to the Tate Gallery in London, or provide generous donations to the South African Agricultural Research Project. The money, and the big parties she threw, the massive anti-defamation campaigns they launched against national newspapers.So it was not unusual for me to have Lord and Lady Marshall on my mind as I walked towards the pair of giant sister cannons in front of the museum, but seeing them come down the steps towards me was a real shock to me. surprised. The farewell party consisted of a group of museum officials—I recognized the director among them—and a staff photographer.Two young men held an umbrella for the Marshalls as they descended the steps next to the pillars.I hesitated and couldn't help slowing down, but I didn't stop to attract people's attention.People were shaking hands to say goodbye, and Lord Marshall said something, which made everyone laugh.He was leaning on a cane, which seemed to me to have become some kind of typical symbol.The couple and the curator posed for a photo, and then left accompanied by a young entourage holding an umbrella.Museum officials remained on the steps.I wanted to see exactly which way the Marshalls would go so I didn't run into them head-on.They walked towards the sisters on the left, and I followed them. Under the cover of raised gun barrels and concrete turrets, and with the umbrella tilted, I was invisible, but I could still see them clearly.They walked by in silence.People know him from his pictures.Despite the brown spots and purplish eye bags on his face, his stern and regal air is still there, although it is not as good as before.The years have shrunk his face, taking away his original charm little by little.The jaw has shrunk and the bones have loosened.He faltered a little, and walked a little slowly, but for an eighty-eight-year-old man, it was pretty good.This is self-explanatory.But his hand held her arm tightly, and this crutch was not just for decoration.Often celebrated for his good deeds to the world, he may have spent his life rehabilitating his past.Or rather, he strides forward without hesitation, living a life that will always be his own. As for my pampered, smoking-addicted cousin Laura, she still looks like a greyhound, thin, loose-boned, and loyal.Who would have thought of that before? As they always say, she had a good time.It may sound sour, but when I looked at her, the thought did cross my mind.She was dressed in a mink coat and a bright red fedora with a wide brim.Rough but not gaudy.Nearly eighty years old, she still wears a pair of high-heeled shoes, her steps are vigorous, she walks on the road like a young woman, and there is no sign of her smoking.In fact, she has an aura unique to rural fitness.She works out indoors.Today, she is taller than her husband.She's full of energy, there's no doubt about it.However, she's still kind of funny - am I just fishing for straws? She's got a lot of make-up on her lips, and she has pink lips.I have been puritanically simple in this respect, so I do not think my words can be trusted.I think she is skinny, with a black coat and red lips, she is clearly a villain; she is holding a pipe, with a pug under her arm, she looks like a Cruella De Vil.