‘How are you, Elsie?’ I ask politely.
‘Not bad, despite my ailments. But Barbara comes over every morning and evening to help. I’m lucky to have such a good daughter. Some mothers aren’t so fortunate.’
It’s not hard to read her disdain for me.
‘Been splashing out, have we?’ she continues, and points to the furniture.
I ignore her. ‘Send Barbara my love,’ I say and turn my head, indicating the conversation is over. But Elsie doesn’t take the hint. Or if she does, she chooses not to acknowledge it.
‘How’s your mum?’ she continues.
‘Not great at the moment.’
‘Do you visit her very much? Most weekends you seem to be here.’
Nothing escapes you, does it? Apart from your best friend locked away in the attic. ‘Once a month I take the train down there,’ I say. ‘But it’s quite expensive.’
‘You can’t put a price on family.’
‘You can when a train ticket costs close to a week’s wages. Besides, Mum doesn’t remember who I am now.’
‘Perhaps she might if you saw her more often or hadn’t sent her so far away.’
‘As I’ve explained many times before, Elsie, it was Mum’s decision to be with her sister. She wanted to return to Devon where she grew up. And there are some lovely views of the coast from where she’s living now. It’s very private, not like here.’
Elsie pulls slices of bread from a plastic bag and scatters them across the lawn for the birds. ‘I still don’t understand how quickly it came on,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘She was always sharp as a pin.’
‘That’s the brain for you. Everything can change in a heartbeat.’
‘So you say.’
For a moment, our cold stares mirror one another’s. She has always regarded me with mistrust, even when I was a teenager, and I’ve never known why. Eventually she offers me an insincere wave goodbye as she makes the slow walk back to her kitchen door. I promise myself that when winter comes, I’ll throw water at that doorstep until it freezes. Then we’ll see how much use she gets out of the emergency alarm when she’s lying on her back with a broken hip and hypothermia.
Alone again, I survey the garden. Like all the others on this estate, the proportions are much more generous than you’ll find in a modern equivalent, because space wasn’t at such a premium in the 1930s. By covering the borders with a weed-proof membrane and woodchip, I’ve kept it low maintenance so that in the summer months, I only have to mow the lawn and trim the edges fortnightly.
A path of concrete paving slabs runs from the back door further up the garden and disappears behind a row of crab-apple trees. Out of view is Dad’s shed. The roof now leaks and the door must be yanked hard before it will open. Inside are his cobweb-covered tools and the cardboard-like remains of a hornets’ nest from last spring. The seven-foot fence at the very back has a row of conifers growing around it that are so tall, no one living behind or next door to us can peer into that part of our garden, and vice versa.
I take my glass of wine with me as I walk to that secluded area, and then sit on the grass by the only flower bed in the garden. I often find myself spending time there, recalling all that I’ve lost and what’s to come, as the hours pass. I love the privacy this corner offers and I understand why Maggie chose it. It’s the one blind spot – and perfect for a grave.
CHAPTER 19
MAGGIE
Do I know you?I think as I stare from the window at the man standing outside our house. I’m aware that spending so much time in here alone means I’ve started to become a little confused about past events out there. And while I’m usually good with faces, I’m struggling to remember why his is resonating with me. I rack my brains but I just can’t place him.
From this distance, he doesn’t look very old. His clothes appear modern and he’s standing with his hands on his hips, surveying my home like an estate agent might. For a split second I wonder if Nina has put the house up for sale. But of course she hasn’t. Imagine the agent’s surprise when he looks around to measure up and discovers it comes with its own ghost in the loft. I pinch the back of my hands just to remind myself I’m not actually a ghoul. It stings, so that’s a good sign.
He looks as if he wants to come closer, but stops himself from walking up the path to the front door. It gets me to thinking, what would happen if a burglar was to break in? Would they reach the first floor, see the locked door and assume there must something valuable in the attic? Would temptation prove too much and is that how I’d be found? Would I be able to talk them into setting me free?
It’s all speculation because this man turns his back, climbs inside the little white car he arrived in, does a three-point turn and drives away. I spot the black sunroof and remember it being here a few days ago. Something’s going on, I can sense it. And I admit the thought of being burgled does rather excite me.
As I turn to pick up a Tupperware container with sliced apple inside, Nina’s memory box catches my eye again. But it doesn’t repel me. Today I feel strong, today I feel ready for it. So I place it on the bed, lift the lid and start removing its contents one by one. Among school reports and drawings, there’s a photograph of Alistair and I taken as we left the registry office; I wonder where she found it, as I thought I’d thrown all these photos out. It brings back an unexpected happy memory of the day itself and how there were only a handful of guests, but that was enough for us. It was such a joyous time, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on it or any of my other years with him. They have all been tainted by everything that followed.
Also inside is a birthday card he made for his ‘only girl’ – his nickname for her makes me shudder. There’s a bottle of coloured sands that Nina filled on a holiday to see her Aunty Jennifer in Devon, school portrait photographs of her throughout the years, and an English exercise book and essays. There’s a small wooden figure wearing a blue suit that I remember was one of the toys she used to replicate me, herself and her dad in her doll’s house. All three toys used to be inseparable. There’s a dried red carnation from when she was a bridesmaid at Jennifer’s wedding, and a Sweet Valley High pencil case with photos of the cast on the side.
It dawns on me that everything here is related to events that happened before she turned thirteen. It might as well have been sealed tight at that point. Could this be its purpose, to remind me of what was taken away from her the last night she saw her father, the night I let her down? Is it possible that, after all this time, she is starting to remember what happened? Are the events of that night – and what she lost – represented by this box? Maybe she’s piecing things together and is asking me for help to push her over the finishing line?
Or perhaps I am giving her too much credit. Yes. More likely – no, almost certainly – this memory box is just another way for her to pile guilt upon my shoulders.
