Rebecca stares at me, and I return the gaze. She is not my mother, and she doesn’t get to tell me what to do. I’m now absolutely certain that I don’t like her. Eventually Rebecca drops her eyes and walks away.
‘Right,’ says Kay. ‘It’s this way. It gets really dark but I’ve got a pocket torch.’
‘You brought a torch with you?’
‘And a penknife. I’m that kind of woman.’
I’m not sure exactly what kind of woman brings a survival kit on holiday but I’m grateful to have that small circle of yellow light from the torch as I stumble along the paths, following, hoping Kay isn’t leading us over a cliff. The sea makes boisterous crashing noises below, even though the night is still, and the clumps of wild grass catch at my feet; the thought occurs to me that the island is trying to stop us from reaching the house. I push it away and keep moving towards that bobbing pool of torchlight.
The light splits into segments, fractured by the rungs of a wrought iron gate. Kay moves the torch to the left, along the line of the hedge, to reveal a small hole, maybe made by one of the sheep, only a few yards away. ‘Come on,’ she says. We squeeze through the privet, and I emerge with the feeling of having been scraped into a new world. The rough grass has become a lawn, and the torchlight reveals the white cube of the house up ahead, with circular black windows, like shark eyes in the deep.
I catch a flicker of light in one of the windows. ‘Turn off the torch!’
Kay snaps off the beam. There is no further movement from the upper window. Eventually my eyes adjust to the point where it is possible to move forwards, small steps. I’m grateful for the flat, straight lawn underfoot. The house takes on an iridescent quality, glowing, reflecting the moonlight. We reach the nearest wall and I find myself taking Kay’s hand and finding warmth in the corresponding squeeze.
‘This way,’ Kay whispers. She leads me along the wall, around the corner, to a flight of stone steps that lead down below the line of the lawn to a small door, wooden, with a brass ring for a handle, and a large keyhole set above it. Gathered around the foot of the door are unused terracotta plant pots, arranged in order of height, and a trowel.
I reach for the brass ring and Kay shakes her head. She points instead to a sash window further down, half-open, easy to climb through. She turns the torch back on and shines it through; I see an undecorated room, stone walls and floor, and a washing machine standing in the corner next to a mop and a bucket. There’s an archway that leads to what looks like a corridor, and a high shelf, upon which wait bottles of bleach and loo cleaner, and four small tins of paint.
‘What do you think?’ whispers Kay.
I don’t want to think. I want to be done with this, and I want my answers, so I ignore my instincts and climb through the gap in the window, sliding on my belly, feeling the buttons on my coat snag on the ledge, then pull free. I stand up and breathe in washing powder, a chemical brand that irritates my nostrils. I have to suppress a sneeze.
All is silent. I cross to the archway and look down the corridor, which ends in an abrupt flight of stairs upwards. There is a grunt, and then Kay comes up behind me and shines the torch down it, revealing faded 1950s wallpaper, a pattern of huge white orchids against what must once have been a vibrant yellow background. There are three doors: two on the left and one on the right. I walk to the first door on the left and put my hand on the cold brass knob. I decide against it. I don’t know why. I’m picturing the library of declarations: a huge space, rows of shelves, alphabetically filed, although I’m probably being old-fashioned and there will only be a broom cupboard with a computer and a hard drive for these many thousands of words. Still, for some reason I turn to the door on the right. I walk up to it, and wait for Kay.
The beam of the torch reveals four squares painted on the wood a little below eye-level – one red, one blue, one yellow, one green – in a row, the lines exact, the paint vibrant under torchlight. I run my fingers over them, feeling the slickness of the paint. They feel familiar to me, these four squares. A logo for some product I have forgotten.
Kay puts her head close to mine. ‘What is it?’ Her voice contains a tremor of fear that strokes my spine and grabs me for the first time. I manage to say, ‘I don’t know.’ I put out my hand and turn the doorknob. It opens easily, swinging back, and I find myself looking into the large space I had imagined, with tall metal shelves forming aisles, ceiling-high, filled with black lever arch files.
Kay puts her hand around the door and I hear a click; the overhead strip light flickers, then gives out a steady, yellow glow. She switches off her torch.
The room is spotless. I walk down the first row of shelves and see no dust, no disorder. Kay starts down the aisle next to me.
‘What’s your surname?’ she calls, softly.
‘Percival. No, wait, that’s my married name. Spence. My mother’s name was Vanessa Spence.’
‘I’ve found “S”,’ says Kay.
The surnames are printed on the sides of the files. It occurs to me that she might have made the declaration under her own maiden name. ‘Wait – it might be under March as well.’
‘You check “M”, then.’
I walk down the row, turn the corner, start down another. The ‘MA’ section is high up; I have to stretch up to read along the row. There is only one March, so I take it down and hold it in my hands. The folder is just like the type I once used at school. I try to slow my breathing, to think about what I want to find out, but it’s too difficult to be rational. I give up the battle to control it and open the folder.
A clear plastic pocket is attached to the rings of the spine, and inside the pocket is a sheet of yellow, A4-sized paper.
At the top, like a letterhead for an expensive hotel, are the words
SKEIN ISLAND And underneath
I was born in Padstow in 1953. My father was a butcher. Everyone came to him for their pork chops and ox tongue, and at the same time they’d ask for his advice, about anything, about houses and jobs and their love lives. He gave great advice. To my sisters and to me, too. He’d say, when I came to him and told him what had gone wrong with my latest boyfriend, ‘Listen, Jo-Jo, life’s all chop and change. Just make sure you’re getting enough chop for your change.’ I loved him dearly, and when he died, the whole town turned out for the funeral. I’ve never met another man like him. I don’t suppose I ever will, now.
It’s not her. This is someone else, some other March. It’s the story of a woman who is nothing to do with me.
I slide the sheet back into the pocket and replace the file on the shelf. I walk around to where Kay is standing, and find her sliding folder after folder from the shelf, reading maybe the first line from the paper within before replacing them.
‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘These are more boring than I thought they would be, actually. Did you find your mum’s?’
‘It’s not here.’
‘But everyone who comes here writes one. Maybe she used a pseudonym.’
‘Or maybe she never came here at all,’ I say. If not, where did she go? How can I possibly find out anything, when the one fact I’ve been holding on to is a lie? I walk through the rows until I find the final files – ‘Z’. There are only a few folders there, and then an empty space. Beyond that, there is a brick wall and, set into that, a small cupboard door, perhaps half the size of a normal door. Painted upon it are the four squares: red, blue, yellow, green.
Next to the door, on the ground, is a red plastic tray with three of the black A4 lever arch files in it. I squat, and open the top one. The clear plastic folder within holds a sheet of aged cream, expensive writing paper with no letterhead, and on it, in delicate, looping handwriting, is written: