I’d been holding my breath and, when I read the first entry, I sighed out with relief. This was from nineteen eighty; I had written about starting the new school year and how I didn’t much like my new teacher, the unfortunately named Mrs. Spot. How Jessica and I had giggled over that name. Seeing Jessica’s name on the page in my eight year old handwriting gave me a jolt. I read on a bit further, slowly turning the faded pages. Some entries were written in pencil and almost illegible.
After a while, I sat down with my back to the radiator, the warmth of it pushing against the whole length of my spine. Gradually, as I read on, the central heating went off and the metal cooled against me until I looked up from the diary and levered myself from the floor, cramped and stiff. I creaked across the carpet, leaving the diaries in a heap on the floor.
My hangover was finally abating and a cup of coffee should see it off for good. Down in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, I tried Matt’s mobile again and this time he answered.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Maudie, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick. Why didn’t you call me when you got there?”
“But I did,” I said, blankly. “I called you when I got here, didn’t you get my voicemail?”
“No I did not. I saw you’d called me this morning but there wasn’t a voicemail. It was that that stopped me calling the police.”
I quailed – he was talking in the clipped, precise way that meant he was completely furious.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what sort of tone to use. I had left him a message. “I did leave you a voicemail when I got here yesterday, I’m sure I did.”
“Well, I didn’t get one. I got some garbled nonsense that cut off halfway through but that could have been anyone; it didn’t even sound like you. Were you drinking last night?”
“No,” I said, my automatic response. I tried to think of something plausible. “I was really tired. Maybe I sounded a bit weird.”
“It wasn’t just that, it just didn’t even sound like a human voice, it was just a load of static. Why the hell didn’t you call me again?”
“I’m sorry.” I felt like crying. “Maybe it was the reception here. It’s never been that good.”
“God,” he said. “You’ll be the fucking death of me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said for the third time. I hit myself on the leg a couple of times and clenched my face in pain. I kept my voice at a normal level.
I heard Matt take a deep breath in and sigh it out. “Alright. Alright. Just as long as you’re okay. Have you made any decision about the house?”
“Er – not yet. I’m still looking through things here. We can talk about it when I get back.”
“I don’t particularly want to sell it,” he said. “It would just be one less thing to worry about.”
“I know,” I said. I thought of him in the flat, sitting in his study, the ashtray on the desk piled high with cigarette stubs as he waited for me to call him. I was a shitty wife. I would do better in the future. I made him a silent promise in my head.
“Look, I’ve got to go, my break is almost up. Please, please call me before you set off tomorrow so I know what time I can expect you.”
“I will, I promise,” I said. “I love you.”
He sighed again. “I love you too. Bye.”
I took the phone from my ear and looked at it.
“Bye,” I said, to empty air.
Mrs. Green had lit the fire in the bigger drawing room and I curled myself on the sofa in there after lunch, my pile of diaries beside me. Although the sight of Jessica’s name still gave me a jab of pain whenever I came across it, I was becoming more and more absorbed in my half-remembered childhood. In some ways, it felt as if no time at all had passed since I’d actually been the age I was describing in the diaries.
I read through my eighth year and my ninth. Then I reached the last book, the last diary I ever wrote. I read the sentence that began Angus says we’re off first thing tomorrow. I can’t wait. I’ve never been to Cornwall before and this year will be brilliant... before I closed the cover and put the book down. I didn’t want to read any more. I would take the diaries home with me, even if I never read them again. At least they would be there, safe with me, ready and waiting in case I was ever able to read the last book. I looked out of the drawing room window at the darkening garden and thought, unwillingly, about the past.
Chapter Twelve
“I don’t know why I let you drag me into this,” I said to Becca.
“What?”
I repeated myself in a shout. Becca winced.
“Come on,” she said. “I knew it would do you good. Stops you sitting at home and festering. Besides, I haven’t seen you for ages.”
I felt a little pang of guilt. “Yes, I’m sorry. Things have been a bit hectic, what with having to go to the Lakes and Matt working so hard and so forth...”
“What?”
“I said–”
“Oh God, this is ridiculous, I can’t hear a word. Let’s go outside for a bit.”
We squeezed ourselves through the crowd in the corridor and headed for the street outside. Becca’s firm had hired L’Amour for their Christmas party and she’d invited me along. Music was throbbing from the largest room, bouncing off the glittering white walls, shaking the enormous chandelier that hung from the ceiling in a frozen waterfall of crystal shards. We eased ourselves through the scrum of people hanging around the back door of the club, into the dingy back alley and stood teetering on our heels.
“Christ, that’s better,” said Becca. “Some fresh air at last.” She lit a cigarette immediately.
I felt better, despite the cold. The heat and the crowd and the noise inside had made me jittery; it seemed a long time since I’d been around so many people.
“How was your trip up north?”
I grimaced. “Weird. Sad. A bit stressful.”
“Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?” Becca patted my shoulder. “Bound to be a bit strange going back to the house without your dad in it for the first time. Have you decided what you’re going to do with it yet?”
I shook my head.
“How’s Matt?” she asked.
I blinked and smiled. “Oh, okay.”
“You don’t sound very sure.”
“No, it’s not that–” I shrugged, suddenly flustered. “Well, he’s still not sure whether he’s got this thing at work. Whether he’s passed his probation. I think it’s weighing on his mind a bit.”
“Yes?”
“I think so. He’s not said anything, but I think it’s bothering him.”
“Oh well,” said Becca. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Yes,” I said. I thought back to last night, how I’d woken up in the middle of the night to find the bed empty. I’d gone to the study, knowing what I’d see; Matt, hunched over his laptop, smoking and frowning. He’d looked up when I’d appeared in the doorway and for a moment, his face had been the face of a young boy, vulnerable and innocent. This time it had been him who’d come to me for comfort; in bed, he’d clutched at me as if he were falling and I was the only thing holding him up. Even afterwards, in his sleep, he’d kicked and groaned and thrashed around, as if he were fighting his own version of the monster in the Men-an-Tol. At breakfast this morning, I’d hoped to hear him sing, and he did once, just one line, something about seeing a shadow and chasing it...
“You’re right,” I said to Becca, as firmly as I could manage. “He’ll be fine.”
We danced, swaying and sweating beneath the kaleidoscope lights.