15 APRIL Iris more or less admitted she'd kept quiet because Horus or whoever came through on the ouija board had told her something was sure to turn up. I nearly said yes, the bailiffs, but I bit my tongue. Of course she doesn't want to move. And Filly doesn't seem to care either way; she says she just wants to get a flat of her own as soon as she can afford it. So we've agreed to ask Mr Pitt about selling some of the pictures or the good chairs.
18 APRIL Rang up Mr Pitt this morning. He asked if we had a copy of the inventory that Grandmama had made when she did her last will; if not he'll get Miss Neame to type out another one for us. Iris didn't know so I went up to the study to look. Even with the morning sun streaming in the study always feels slightly haunted. Perhaps it's the leftover smell of her tobacco. And there was something rustling about in the ceiling. I don't think I'm afraid of mice but I shouldn't like it to be anything larger. It wasn't in any of the drawers, so I started looking through the little cabinet, but then I got distracted and started reading some of Grandmama's stories again. And that made me remember her reading us 'The Pavilion' in the summerhouse before the war, at least I thought then she was reading but she made it into quite a different story, with nothing about Rosalind getting married or Mr Margrave being a vampire, or of course the angel; it was all about the way the pavilion changed whenever you went to sleep in it. I didn't find the inventory, but at the back of the cabinet underneath a stack of typing paper I found an old leather music-case. Inside was another of her stories, a longer one I'd never seen before, called 'The Revenant'. The creepy feeling started when I looked at the date. Three years before I was born, before our parents had even met. I wondered at first if she'd put 1925 for 1935, say, but I don't think she would have written it after the accident. Of course there must be lots of stories about orphaned sisters being brought up by aunts and uncles or grandparents. And it's not as if I've ever felt like an orphan. Just that so many things seem to fit. It's this house for a start, though only this floor, really, and the lane and the garden. But why is it different from her turning the summerhouse into the pavilion? Because F. and I are the same age as Beatrice and Cordelia? Our rooms are side by side, and the studio is where Grandmama's study is. Beatrice goes out to work and Cordelia stays home, like me. And Iris has a weak heart. But so do lots of people, and she's not fat like Aunt Una. And their not having any money, and having to do their own cooking. And me just turning 21. Still freezing.
19 APRIL Read the story again last night. It reminds me of the feeling when we used to play with Iris's ouija board: the way the glass seemed to come alive and tug. I'd never thought of Filly and me as estranged, just not terribly close. But now I wonder. Just as it didn't seem odd, before, that she and I haven't talked about our parents for years and years, and now it does.
28 APRIL Filly does remind me of a cat. And there is something guarded and distrustful about her. I notice it more and more. But is the story making me see things that aren't there? Like walking on the heath at dusk, when you think there's a man watching you from the shadows and he turns out to be a treetrunk?
5 MAY Mr Pitt says Christies will send someone to look at the pictures. All I have to do is ring up and arrange a time. This is silly. Lots of people have their pictures valued.
11 MAY Mr Montfort-Hugh Montfort came this afternoon to look at the pictures. It was Iris's day with Mrs Roper's circle so I was here by myself. All morning I kept thinking, what if he looks exactly like Harry Beauchamp? Of course he was nothing like, except for being young and quite good-looking. He's tall, and slender, with black hair swept back from the temples, pale skin, no moustache. And no corduroy trousers-he had on a charcoal grey suit, beautifully pressed. Very dark brown eyes, the corners crinkle when he smiles. And he didn't make me feel embarrassed about our having to sell things. I wasn't going to mention it but he was so nice I ended up telling him all about us while I was showing him the pictures-although really he was showing me: he knew about almost every one we looked at. He thinks the Blake etching might fetch quite a bit. He actually listens: such a change from Owen. His parents live apart and he has a married sister in Canada. He's sharing rooms in Piccadilly with a friend-they were in the army together but he didn't want to talk about the war. I don't think there's anyone special.
15 MAY Hugh rang to say he'd like to have another look at the Blake. I asked him to tea on Thursday and he said yes!
19 MAY Such a wonderful day: we took our tea out to the summerhouse and talked and talked. Afterwards I said I'd walk down to the station with him and we went on a huge detour, all the way to Highgate Ponds. I asked how he got interested in pictures and he said he'd wanted to be a painter but realised after a while he'd never be very good. Apparently having a good eye for pictures doesn't mean you can do it yourself. I said I liked Constable which was a mistake but he was very nice about it. And it's OK to like Turner though only the blurry ones, Hugh said they were done when his eyes were going and that's how the world actually looked to him. There was a painter called Fuseli who was colour-blind, he said, and had to choose his colours by remembering where they were on his palette. He told me about a collector he knows, very rich and eccentric, who buys every picture he can find by a man called Rees, because he hates his work so much he doesn't want anyone else to see it. Because he's a collector he can't bring himself to destroy the pictures, so he keeps them locked in a damp cellar where they're slowly rotting away. That was the only slightly creepy moment, because it reminded me of Ruthven de Vere buying up all Henry St Clair's pictures. I won't think about it any more. On Tuesday we're going to the Tate!
24 MAY Went to Tate to look at the Turners but I couldn't really concentrate, I was so happy. Then walked for miles along the Embankment with the sun shining on the river. I want to live by water.
6 JUNE Cinema with Hugh. The Heiress -so exciting. Supper afterwards. He kissed me properly at last. And told me I'm beautiful. And I didn't mention Filly so it wasn't in the least like the story. I might as well admit I'm in love with him. Somehow we got on to Iris. H. asked me whether she really believes, and so I told him about Geoffrey being killed in the last war, and how she never really got over it, and that led to our parents. He was very tactful and tentative, but I don't think he quite believed me when I said I'd never really missed them. Did Filly feel the same way, he asked, and I had to admit I didn't know, and that made me think of the story again. I wish I'd never found it.