Mum holds up a hand. ‘No. Let her go on. I want to hear it. What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean.’ Octavia squares up to her, her mannish figure tal er than Mum’s. ‘You. Throwing yourself at my father, and my uncle!

Your vile brother, perving over my mother. The two of you, bul ying poor Cecily to death, just because she wouldn’t go along with you—’

‘Hey! Octavia!’ I say, finding my voice. ‘You don’t know anything! Shut the hel up!’

‘No!’ Her eyes are popping out of her head. ‘You stupid girl,’ Mum says, baring her teeth. A strong gust blows her hair round her head, like a banshee. She looks terrifying. ‘Where do you get off, accusing me? You know nothing, darling. You don’t know the fucking half of it, you have no—’

And then Octavia reaches forward and whips the diary out from under my arm, with a movement so sharp and quick it’s gone before I can stop her.

‘ Continuing the Diary of Cecily Kapoor,’ she reads. She looks up, smiling, as though she’s won something.

Louisa’s mouth drops open. ‘No –’ she says, scanning the red cover. ‘That’s her handwriting, that’s Cecily’s—’ She stares at her cousin.

‘Miranda – is that her diary?’

‘It is,’ Mum says. ‘How—’ Louisa’s eyes are wide. ‘From that summer?’

‘Yes,’ Mum says. She gently puts her hand on Octavia’s wrist and strokes it, as though she’s a cat, and Octavia’s fingers slowly open. Mum takes the diary out. She looks at it, then at her cousin. ‘Yes, I’ve read it. It’s pretty interesting.’

‘I bet it is,’ Octavia says. ‘No wonder you haven’t told anyone about it, al these years.’

‘We only found it after Granny died,’ I point out. ‘OK?’

‘What’s in it?’

‘Yes,’ Louisa says, shaking her head. But she looks terrified. And then she looks at my mother and steps back. ‘You know – I don’t think I want to know. I just want to remember her as she was.’

‘Louisa, tel me something,’ Mum asks. ‘What do you remember about that summer? Before she died, I mean.’

‘Wel —’ Louisa looks wary. ‘Why?’

‘It’s Cecily’s diary, not yours, or mine. She was writing what she wanted to write about. We were there too, weren’t we? What do you remember?’

‘Oh . . .’ Louisa screws up her face. ‘I remember . . . “Please Please Me”.’ They smile at each other. ‘And my new shorts, Mummy said they were indecent, but I loved them. And the awful springs on Jeremy’s car. I remember . . . oh gosh, how hot it was. Mary making lavender ice-cream the day we arrived, it was absolutely delicious. Archie . . .’ She blushes. ‘Archie being a Peeping Tom. For years afterwards I’d try to avoid him. I always forget that’s why, it got mixed up with everything else, didn’t it? Oh, I remember Frank and Guy arriving, and how wonderful it was . . . at first.

It al changed, after that. I don’t know why.’

‘Everything did get mixed up,’ Mum says. She hugs the diary close. ‘I remember my new clothes, and my feet looking brown in the pumps I’d bought, and I remember how much I hated it at home, how I wished I could leave. I’d lie awake at night with Cecily snoring away and work out how I’d do it. Go somewhere where I wasn’t the stupid one, the slow one, the lazy one. Be the pretty one, the fun one, the exciting one.’

‘But you were,’ Louisa says in amazement. ‘We thought you were absolutely it. We were so boring, Jeremy and I, compared to you three. You’d met everyone, seen everything, your parents let you do what you wanted . . .’

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Mum isn’t smiling though. The wind buffets us, stinging my cheeks. I am transfixed. ‘That’s not how I remember it. At al . Look, it’s al in the past now,’ she says. ‘It’s gone. It’s like the diary. It’s her version, not mine, not yours.’ She clutches the diary close, drumming her fingers against it.

I hadn’t thought of it like that. How if I were to read Mum’s diary of the summer, or Archie’s, or even Granny’s, it might be different. I guess I’l never know the rest. They were al there that summer, they know what it was like, but even then there’s stil a lot they’l never real y understand.

‘I stil think about her, I can stil picture her so clearly,’ Louisa says. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Every day,’ Mum tel s her. She looks so old, suddenly. Tears swim in her eyes. Whether it’s the wind or not, I don’t know. ‘She was lovely, wasn’t she?’

They give each other a smal , half-smile, as the wind buffets us. ‘She was,’ says Louisa. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘It’s not,’ Mum says. ‘But like I say, it’s in the past now.’

I find myself nodding. She’s right. ‘Wel , I disagree. I think we should read it too,’ Octavia says.

‘Why?’ I ask her. ‘Because we deserve the truth. Al our lives, Mum’s the one who’s done everything for your mother and father. She’s got nothing for it, she’s never been thanked or rewarded—’

‘What, you want money?’ I ask. ‘Is that what this is about?’

‘Octavia! Natasha!’ Louisa hisses. ‘No, of course not.’

‘I’m just saying, I’ve grown up with it. I’ve sat there and watched Mum cleaning up, cooking, spending al summer here, her looking after you –’

she points at me – ‘because you –’ she points at Mum – ‘can’t be bothered to come and see your parents. And no one ever says why, do they?’

Octavia laughs. ‘They never say why we can’t rock the boat. We just al pretend it’s al OK.’

I’ve had enough. ‘Octavia, you don’t know what the hel you’re talking about,’ I say. ‘You’ve got it al wrong! Mum’s not the one who—’

And then something strange happens. The diary is in Mum’s hand, and it suddenly flies out, eddying away on a huge, arching gust of wind, out over the beach, dropping abruptly like a rock into the sea. Louisa cries out, and Octavia scrambles for the steps, but my mother, with an iron grasp, stops her.

‘No. Octavia, don’t. It’s too dangerous.’

She turns them back towards the house. ‘It’s gone,’ I say, looking out at the tiny red exercise book, floating further out to sea. ‘It’s real y gone.’

‘Now we’l never know, I guess,’ Louisa says. She shrugs sadly, and looks up at Mum. ‘Miranda, be honest for once. There wasn’t anything real y horrid in it, was there?’

Mum glances down at her. ‘Absolutely not, Louisa. I promise.’

‘Good.’ Louisa nods. I don’t know whether she believes this or not.

‘And Louisa, you know, that thing with Archie?’ Mum says. ‘Jeremy used to look at me al the time too. He was just better at not getting caught, that’s al .’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It real y is,’ Mum says. ‘Like I say: just because you didn’t see it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Louisa demands.

My mother gives a quick, twisted smile. ‘Who’d have believed me?’ She glances down at the shingley path. ‘Please, trust me. Just this once. It was a long, long time ago, al of it. You don’t hate Archie now, do you? I mean, you don’t like him much, but it’s al so long ago. Al of it. So why don’t we just cal it quits?’

‘You’re bloody crazy,’ Octavia says. ‘Yes, I am,’ my mother says. ‘I know it more than most people. Lousia?’ Lousia smiles her sweet smile.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Let’s.’ Mum’s eyes shine at her for a second, and then she nods at me. ‘Darling, we should go—’

She takes my arm. Octavia storms ahead of us, not saying anything. Louisa cal s after her. ‘Octavia?’ She shakes her head. ‘Oh, dear,’ she says. ‘She’s – wel , a bit unpredictable.’ She smiles. ‘A bit like you, Miranda.’

‘Me?’ My mother looks completely horrified at the suggestion that black-suited, clompy-shod Octavia and she are similar, and I chew my lip, trying not to smile. It’s strange, but she’s right.

The three of us walk back up towards the house in silence. We stand outside on the terrace, and Archie appears.

‘About time,’ he says. ‘Come on, girls.’

‘Let me just brush my hair,’ my mother says. ‘Mum, we real y should hurry –’ I say, looking at my watch. ‘The train leaves in less than an hour.’

‘So . . .’ Louisa fiddles with her bag, peering right inside it as if looking for Aztec gold in there. ‘So . . .’

I lean forward and give her a big hug. ‘Thank you for everything you did today,’ I say. ‘Wel , everything. You should come into town some time.

Come and see me.’

She looks taken aback. ‘Oh, Nat darling, lovely. I’m sure that’d be – er . . .’ She trails off.

‘I’m very near the Geffrye Museum,’ I say. ‘We could go and look at nice almshouses and English furniture. Maybe wander down Columbia Road, there are some lovely places to have coffee there. And you could see where they’re stocking my jewel ery.’ Next to me, Mum looks uncomfortable. ‘I’d love you to see it.’ I feel that if I don’t say it now, I won’t have a reason to see her again. Yes. So I say, ‘I’d love to see you.’

Louisa suddenly goes a bit pink. ‘I’d love that too.’ She pats my arm. ‘I’m so proud of you, Natasha. Your granny would be too . . .’ She bites her lip and looks away. ‘Goodbye,’ she says, and she grips Mum’s arm too.

‘Goodbye, Natasha,’ the Bowler Hat says.

He kisses my cheek and I stare at him. I don’t feel rage, just cold dislike. I want him to suffer for what he’s done but I realise there’s no point, real y. It would only hurt Louisa and that’s not what any of us wants. He’s not worth my time. Hopeful y I won’t ever have anything to do with him.

He doesn’t go near Mum. ‘Bye,’ he says, raising his hand, rather flatly, as if unsure of what comes next.

‘Ready?’ Archie says. He opens the car door for his sister, as he always does. ‘I’l be back soon, Louisa,’ he says. ‘Sort out the rest.’

‘Thanks,’ Louisa says, her voice muffled again; and it’s strange, I’ve never noticed it before, but it’s true, there’s an awkwardness between them. Whereas the Bowler Hat gets to strol around carefree, and what he did that summer was much worse, and half of them – Mum, Archie, Guy –

both my grandparents – know it. I sigh. That sums the whole crazy situation up, real y. I mean, I know Archie can be annoying, but he’s OK. He’s Jay’s dad, after al . He must have only just got back from dropping Arvind off, and here he is, driving us back to almost exactly where he’s just been.

‘Hop in, Natasha.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling a rush of gratitude towards him, and I climb into the back. As we drive off I swivel round in my seat, just as I used to when I was smal , to catch one last glimpse of the house, its white curves set against the sloping green and the sea in the background. In the front, Archie and Mum are chattering about something together, laughing, as if their spirits have been lifted already by going. I realise that, what with everything, I haven’t said goodbye to the house, goodbye to Summercove for ever.

Then it occurs to me that actual y, I have.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Just after seven the next morning, we pul in to Paddington. It is another beautiful spring day. Soft sunshine floods into the old, familiar station as Mum and I get off the train and stand awkwardly on the platform.

We look blearily at each other as the crowds recede. I swing my bag over my shoulder and she smiles at me, and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.

‘Darling Nat,’ she says. ‘My clever girl.’

We’re nodding at each other. We’ve made it. We’ve come out the other side. I feel as though I’ve been fighting my way through the darkness for a long time, the whole of the last year. Perhaps longer, when I think about it, as if my life had gone the wrong direction, with no input from me. The way Mum’s did when Cecily died.

She grips my hand with her long, smooth fingers, so tight she’s almost pinching it. She is sort of wild, her eyes are huge.

I pat her shoulder. ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Shal we – do you want to go and get some breakfast? I know a nice place not far from here, by the canal.’

She’s nodding. ‘We could . . . talk,’ I say, rol ing my eyes, hoping she knows I don’t like it much either, but that it’d be nice to chat. ‘Just . . .

catch up and stuff.’

Mum opens her mouth, smiling at the same time. And then she says, ‘Oh! . . . Yes. I’d – Yes, wel , I’d love to, darling, but I can’t.’

‘Oh. I thought you were – never mind, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Jean-Luc rang me early this morning,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘His wife’s left him and he’s in a terrible state. He just happens to have a booking for the River Café for lunch! So he’s taking me. I real y should get home and make myself presentable.’ Her smile is stil bright, optimistic, sunny and a little scary. ‘But it’s a lovely idea, darling.’ She grasps my hand again. ‘Maybe some other time, hm?’