teddy bear smelled of dust and was worn threadbare on the ears. They must have been soft once. Would her mother recall its name? Many of the books looked like they may have been Gran’s once . . . except one, which had a beautiful red leather cover. Opening it, she saw in careful childish handwriting . . .
PRIVATE
This belongs to Diana Trewin of Boskenna
She went to the window, hoping to see her mother, but no luck. Returning to her bed, she flipped the diary open again. Empty. She frowned. Flicking through the whole book, she saw her mother had begun writing from the back of the diary. A quick scan of the words provided a glimpse into her mother’s past. Eating, sailing, eating, eating and then Lottie’s hand stopped. The last entry.
5 August 1962
Dear Diary,
Daddy is dead. It’s my fault.
She blinked then she read it again. What did her mother mean?
‘Lottie?’ Her mother called from the hallway.
She shoved the diary under her pillow.
‘There you are.’ Her mother walked through the door, paused then took two big steps to the bed. She clutched the bear. ‘Ben.’
‘You remember him?’
She nodded and stroked the Guernsey sweater with her free hand. ‘Where did you find this?’ Her eyes narrowed. That momentary flash of a softer side to her mother vanished. Interrogation mode was back in place.
‘In the . . .’ Lottie hesitated. If she said the stables, her mother could possibly – and rightly – ask why she’d been in there. She mumbled as her mother began putting the books back into the box.
‘It’s good that you remembered Ben.’ Lottie shuffled closer to her pillow where she could see the corner of the diary sticking out.
‘Is it?’ She stroked his ear. ‘Or is it worse that I can recall a stuffed animal’s name and not remember much about my father?’ She placed the jumper and the bear on top of the books, picked up the box and left the room without a word.
When she was sure her mother was gone, Lottie pulled the diary out. Those words jumped off the page. Why on earth would her mother feel she was responsible for Allan’s death? It was accidental. But thinking about it, all kids blame themselves for everything, be it divorce or in her own case, a missing father. Looking back, Lottie remembered believing that her father must have gone because of her. She looked out of the window, knowing she could still be right.
3 August 1962, 10.15 p.m.
The longcase clock in the hallway chimed and Diana crept downstairs. She could hear music coming from the smoking room. No one was in the hallway. The small kitchen was in darkness and totally cleared. She checked the refrigerator and found the bowl of whipped cream. But she couldn’t dig into that without the evidence showing. That had happened before, and she’d been caught.
Back in the corridor, she raced upstairs then down the hall to the back stairway. She liked these stairs best. They had a lantern light above them, looking out to the sky. Right now, because of the lights on inside she couldn’t see the sky, but on many nights she and Daddy had stared up at the stars and sometimes the moon. He would tell her stories while sitting halfway between up and down. It was their special place, a place of magic.
She stopped briefly, wanting all the guests to go so she could have Daddy on her own, but it was his birthday weekend and he wanted his friends around. She sighed then continued downstairs to hide against the doorframe at the bottom. The record player was on and Frank Sinatra was singing about night and day. Mummy was dancing with Uncle Tom and she looked so beautiful. Her dress was all shimmery. When he spun her, her dress became like mermaid skin. Daddy put his drink down and cut in, taking Mummy in his arms. Uncle Tom laughed. He walked towards the door and she pressed herself against the wall.
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