“How have you been, Maudie?”

“Well,” I said, tentatively. The smell of coffee caught in my throat. Nausea hit me and I turned away, breathing deeply.

“Oh, I’m sorry dear. Of course you haven’t been here since the funeral, have you? It must be hard.” She sighed. “It’s not been the same since he’s gone, you know. Well, of course you know. It’s not the same at all.”

The nausea receded. I managed to mutter something in response.

“Breakfast won’t be long,” she said. “Are you alright? You look a bit peaky.”

“I’m okay,” I said. “Just a bit under the weather.” I kept my distance, in case she caught the reek of wine fumes from me. “I’m sure a bit of breakfast will do me good.”

After I’d forced a plate of food down my reluctant throat and sat for a moment, struggling not to vomit, I levered myself back up and went outside for a bit of air. My head was killing me.

The sun was struggling feebly through a bank of grey cloud. I could barely see the mountains; cloaked in mist as they were. I took a few deep breaths, trying to quell the nausea. This house was bad for me, in all ways. Perhaps I should sell it.

After a while, I went back inside and straight up to the study. Angus had been an organised man, a skill I didn’t think I’d inherited. I waded through neat reams of paper and countless files, all correctly labelled. What exactly was I looking for? Why was I even here? I was just fumbling around, as usual, getting in the way, not knowing my purpose. Halfway through the morning I called Matt’s mobile, just to say hello, but it was turned off. He probably had a class. No matter, I’d try him later.

There was really nothing for me to do in the study. I drifted back to my room and began to poke around in the cupboards. Within minutes, I’d found a whole heap of absorbing stuff; stuff I’d forgotten about for years – school certificates and books and faded photographs. There were several from boarding school, including a group photograph of all the girls in my final year. I’d framed it, for some reason; God knows why I’d thought it worthy of that. I picked it up, wiping the dust from the surface of the glass. There was my fifteen year old self, third row, fifth from the left; my hair in an unfortunate fringe and the knot of my school tie slightly askew. I wasn’t smiling.

I dropped the photograph and wiped my hand on my jeans. I sifted through a few old textbooks and dog-eared notebooks. There was a battered old teddy bear wedged underneath another heap of exercise books. I picked them up to see if I could free him and then recognised the writing on the front page of the top book. My God, my old diaries. I picked up the topmost one and weighed it in my hands. I felt a sudden reluctance to open it. If only I could be sure of the year, without opening it, to see if it was safe for me to read... I took a deep breath and turned over the front cover.

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...”