The Attic Room
by
Linda Huber
Contents © Linda Huber 2015
All rights reserved
Cover design by The Cover Collection
http://www.thecovercollection.com/
All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Contents
The Attic Room
Acknowledgements
Dedication
About the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Preview
Acknowledgements
Very special thanks go to Debi Alper, whose advice, support and encouragement helped me shape this book into the version we have here.
Thank you to my oldest school friend Anne Paterson, for living on the lovely Isle of Arran and in the Bedford area, and for her hospitality so many times over the years.
Many thanks to my nephew Calum Rodger and my sons Matthias and Pascal Huber for technical help and information, and to Pascal for his work on my website.
Special thanks too to Bea Davenport, for help with the book blurb, and to Debbie at The Cover Collection for the amazing cover image.
And to the many, many people who have helped and supported me in so many ways with this book and my others, both in real life and via social media – thank you SO much!
Dedication
In memory of Kurt and Mum
About the Author
Linda Huber grew up in Glasgow, Scotland, where she trained as a physiotherapist. She spent ten years working with neurological patients, firstly in Glasgow and then in Switzerland. During this time she learned that different people have different ways of dealing with stress in their lives, and this knowledge still helps her today, in her writing.
Linda now lives in Arbon, Switzerland, where she works as a language teacher in a medieval castle on the banks of beautiful Lake Constance. The Attic Room is her third novel. The Paradise Trees, 2013, and The Cold Cold Sea, 2014, are published by Legend Press.
Chapter One
Wednesday 12th - Friday 14th July
The house was empty without Claire.
Nina made coffee and took a mug out to the bench in front of the farmhouse. From here she could see right across the Firth of Clyde to the mainland, a mere fuzzy line in the distance today. The lunchtime ferry was inching out from behind the neighbouring Holy Isle, and the hills of Arran behind her separated a perfect summer sky from the sea. And the beauty of it all made a mockery of the fact that, two weeks ago today, she had switched off her mother’s life support system and banished Claire into eternal peace. Far away from home.
Nina shivered. The world had changed, and it wasn’t going to change back. For the zillionth time the lump in her throat expanded and dear God, how painful it was. Hot coffee slopped over shaking fingers, and Nina winced. She would never get used to this brave new world of hers. It was so bloody unfair – what had Claire ever done to deserve such a horrible death? Nina scrubbed her face with her sleeve. They’d been happy, her and Claire and Naomi. Three generations in one house didn’t work for everyone but it had suited them, maybe because having the B&B meant that, in summer at least, the old farmhouse was full of people. Thank God Beth was around to help her cope. They’d been inseparable since primary school, and now the two of them ran the B&B. Nina pressed unsteady fingers on her hot forehead. It had been the three of them when Claire was alive.
And then some stupid kid with half a bottle of vodka inside him mowed Claire down with his motorbike. He’d died too, which made things no easier – she couldn’t even rage at him now. The pain was never-ending.
The sound of the landline trilling into the farmhouse kitchen jolted her back to today. Another query about accommodation, no doubt, and Beth wasn’t here to answer it. Thrusting out her chin, Nina forced herself to her feet and blew her nose on the way to the phone. She was coping – she was coping – and more importantly she was helping Naomi cope. Ten-year-olds needed stability as well as love and Naomi was damn well going to get both.
The voice on the phone was English and brisk. ‘Ms Moore, good afternoon. My name’s Samuel Harrison and I’m your father’s lawyer. Mr Moore contacted us through the nursing staff yesterday afternoon, and requested that we call you. He wants to resume contact – I gather you’ve been out of touch for many years.’
For a moment Nina struggled to find the right words. ‘I suppose you could call it that – my father died when I was three. You must have got hold of the wrong Nina Moore.’
There was a pause before Samuel Harrison spoke again, his voice puzzled. ‘O – kay.’ Nina heard his fingers clicking over a keyboard. ‘But you are Nina Claire Moore, born in Ealing, West London, now living on the Isle of Arran?’
‘Yes,’ said Nina, hearing the bewildered tone in her own voice too. What on earth was going on? ‘My mother’s family were originally from Arran, and we moved back here shortly after my father died.’
‘I see. There must have been a misunderstanding somewhere. I’m working on this case for a colleague who’s away at the moment, so I haven’t met John Moore personally. He’s in a hospice near Bedford. I’m sorry to tell you he’s suffering from lung cancer, and my colleague’s impression was that he was a father wanting to contact his daughter before it was too late. Could he be an uncle?’
Nina had to make an effort not to sound impatient. This was an absurd conversation to be having.
‘I shouldn’t think so. My father was Robert Moore, and as far as I know my mother had no contact with his family after moving back here. I wasn’t aware I had any relations left on the Moore side.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And my mother died in an accident two weeks ago so I’m afraid there’s no one I can ask.’ She closed her eyes to keep the tears in. Thank God he couldn’t see her.
There was silence for a couple of beats; the usual pause while people worked out what to say. Samuel Harrison did better than many. ‘That’s terrible. I’m sorry for your loss. Um, I’ll go and see John Moore tomorrow, find out what’s going on, and get back to you.’
Nina replaced the handset and stood staring at the phone. What the hell was she supposed to make of that? Life was messy enough at the moment without something weird going on with her father… who she didn’t even remember. Had Claire known this John Moore? If so, she’d never mentioned him. Which meant – what?