‘Never too late for tea. Thank you, darling.’
‘I’ll go put the kettle on.’ He disappeared into the kitchen, walking with the confidence of a man who knew the space and had made memories here.
She sat in the leather chair and placed her hands on the worn arms, closing her eyes briefly.
I love you, Harriet. I love you, always you. Only you. I love you so much this is killing me!
It was surprising to her, how fatigue had ushered in the hand of nostalgia and she could clearly hear Hugo saying these words, recalling how very desperate she had felt, how torn.
‘Is it odd for you, Mum, being here? Bringing back some memories, I bet?’ Bear called out.
‘Yes and yes, but I guess that’s rather the point, isn’t it?’
Standing, she went to join him in the cosy kitchen, which was the least altered. The freshly painted walls kept the room bright. But the hand-built old pine units, the wooden floor and of course the wide sash window that gave a great view of Mill Head, the street on which the building sat, were just the same.
‘And I thought you were here to help nurse my broken heart or help me find a way to glue it back together. Which it will, I hope, if Tawrie will just hear me out.’
‘Who knows, Bear? Maybe she’s missed you desperately, or maybe’ –like me –‘she has come to see that life is too short to be with someone you can’t trust, and if she can’t trust you ...’ She let this trail and his expression fell.
‘I think I’m prepared for that but it’s a thought that kills me, honestly, Mum.’ He took a deep breath and popped teabags into mugs. She took a seat at a table slightly smaller than the one they’d left behind; still old and with a scrubbed top it was a fitting addition that was better sized for the space.
They had spent many an hour at that old table, she and Hugo, sitting either side of the worn wood that was no more than three feet wide and yet represented a gulf of miles and miles they’d had no hope of traversing. Not that she’d fully understood that in the beginning. Just being here took her right back to then. She half expected to hear the thunder of little feet on the stairs and for Dilly to appear, book in hand, and for Hugo to walk in, dark half-moonsunder his eyes, his gaze one of avoidance. A chill trickled through her veins as she remembered what it felt like to not be enough and to have no real clue as to why she had been discarded. She rubbed her arms, trying in vain to warm a place that touch couldn’t reach.
Bear placed the mug of tea in front of her, topped up with the milk they’d picked up from the petrol station when they’d stopped en route for fuel.
‘We can get up early, if you like, Mum, and go and see whatever it is you want to show me! The suspense is killing me.’ He looked like an eager child, rubbing his hands together.
‘Oh, it’s not a place.’ She took a restorative sip.
‘What is it then?’ He sounded a smidge disappointed.
‘It’s a thing and it’s right here in the cottage.’ She swallowed the flutter of nerves, unsure if she wanted to revisit the words written by a different version of herself – one who was afraid, hurt. She was unsure if showing her son was a good or bad idea. But either way, she was entirely committed.
‘Well, if it’s here, show me now! What are we waiting for?’ He pushed away from the table.
Reluctantly abandoning her tea, she slowly trod the stairs with Bear close behind. New cream carpet throughout the upper floors had cosied up the place and the middle landing was wider than she remembered, partly due to the fact that in her mind’s eye it was cluttered with badly labelled removal boxes, which had taken an age to sort out. Again, she saw how his eyes were drawn to the wide sash window on the middle landing, staring down Fore Street and almost stooped towards the view, as if his whole being longed to run right out of the front door and go wake that girl! She prayed he wasn’t going to get hurt, remembering fragments of the lovely Annalee, and hoping her daughter carried the same kindness. She thought also of sweet Petra, wondering if she lay awake feeling thestab of rejection, and, knowing what it was like to get caught in the crossfire of someone’s infidelity, her heart went out to her.
Finally up to the top floor, the attic room where she noted the bed was unmade. Gingerly, she walked over to the small cupboard with a louvre door, which cleverly created a hanging area within the boxed-off roof space.
‘You want to show me the little wardrobe?’ He looked perplexed.
Ignoring him, she opened the door and bent down, placing her hand on the right side panel, one quick push and out it popped. She assumed it had been installed in case of pipe maintenance – or perhaps to hide documents or valuables. It was something Hugo had discovered quite by accident as he’d rummaged around getting better acquainted with their new home. With her arm fully extended, she ran her fingers around behind the panel until, with relief, they touched the firm plastic of the Tupperware box. It was dusty and she wiped the close-fitted lid with her fingers. It was both wonderful and petrifying to have the box in her possession.
‘You stashed sandwiches up here?’ Bear stared at the loot in her hands with barely disguised disappointment. ‘I mean, how desperate were you for a midnight snack? And I hate to be the one to break it to you, Mum, but they might have gone off a bit in the last twenty-odd years. I must admit I was hoping for a stash of rubies or an illegal haul of whisky, something vaguely valuable!’
‘This is my treasure. My truth.’ She spoke softly and held the box to her chest as she made her way back down the stairs.
They both glugged the cooled tea and stared at the box, which was discoloured and had taken on an unattractive orange hue.
‘What is it? I mean, I can see it’s a book.’ He pointed.
Her son had always had this level of impatience.
Holding the corner of the lid, she peeled it away from the box and there it lay. Its glorious green cloth jacket was remarkably wellpreserved, bar a couple of age spots, and to see it again, aware of what it had meant to her and how it had saved her sanity at a time when to talk freely was not always possible, was, to say the least, emotional.
‘Don’t cry.’ Bear reached out and squeezed her hand. In truth she hadn’t realised she was until he said it. ‘What is it?’ he asked, softly this time.
‘It’s my diary.’ She wiped her face on her sleeve.
