Forget Her Name(16)

‘That maybe it was you.’

‘Me?’

‘Who sent me the snow globe.’

Mum says something in quick denial, clearly distressed. But I miss it in the sudden grate of my dad’s chair on the marbled floor of the dining room.

‘Get up.’

I stand in confusion, staring at him. Is Dad throwing me out? He grabs for my wrist. His fingers curl round the narrow bones like a manacle, and he squeezes, jerking me forward.

‘Come with me, Catherine.’

I’m scared for a second, but he isn’t threatening me. Not with violence, anyway. His voice is one I recognise from childhood. That ‘you’re in trouble now’ tone. It makes me instantly defensive.

‘Why?’

‘There’s something I need to show you.’

Flushed and breathless, I try to shake him loose. ‘No.’

Dad isn’t expecting resistance. I see the flash in his eyes. He refuses to let go, tightening his grip. ‘Now you listen to me—’

‘Ow, that bloody hurts.’

‘Robert!’ Mum exclaims.

He looks round at her, releasing my wrist. But his face is dark with anger. Anger or shame, I’m not sure which. Maybe a touch of guilt, too. And he should be bloody guilty, the way he just treated me.

‘Follow me,’ he says abruptly, and leaves the room.

When I stride angrily after him into the hall, Dad is already heading upstairs.

‘Up here, Catherine.’

I hesitate, then follow him.

There’s an old, dark-wood chest on the landing outside the guest room, ornately carved, gleaming with polish. My father is waiting beside it with folded arms.

I approach him warily, mistrusting the look in his eyes. I can smell beeswax from the polished chest, and a faint scent of flowers mixed with chemicals emanating from the pale-blue-and-white carpet.

Kasia has been hard at work up here too, I think.

I look down at the chest. I recognise it as having stood at the foot of my parents’ bed once. It held linen then, I recall. Neat stacks of freshly laundered sheets and duvet covers, all beautifully ironed and folded, a sachet of lavender slipped between the sheets at intervals to keep the linen scented. Mum sometimes sent me tiptoeing into their bedroom at night to fetch fresh sheets for my bed – there were embarrassingly frequent bed-wetting occasions in my childhood – and I remember lifting the lid quietly, so quietly, to avoid waking Dad, and then dragging out armfuls of clean, lavender-scented sheets.

Now the chest has been moved onto the landing for some reason. Somehow I doubt it still holds linen.

‘Open it,’ he tells me.

‘Why?’

‘Just open it.’

It’s obvious that he won’t be happy until I’ve performed this stupid little charade for him. So I kneel, feeling ridiculous, and open the heavy, creaking lid of the chest.

Inside the chest are things I recognise from childhood. Not my things though. It’s a jumble of old dolls and teddy bears, stuffed animals, toys, Christmas annuals and a few much-thumbed paperbacks. Some collections of poems, some paranormal romances and an illustrated paperback of Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass. I hesitate over that, pick it up, then put it back.

‘These are Rachel’s,’ I say, and glance up at him, frowning. ‘So what?’

I try to close the lid, but his voice stops me.

‘Take another look.’ Dad’s watching me, his face unreadable in shadow, the landing light behind his head. ‘A proper look, please.’

Reluctantly, I pluck a teen novel out of the chest and flick through it. It’s one of the paranormal romances. Witches in a coven, fixing love potions or making up curses. There’s occasional red pen in the margins, too. Some kind of commentary on the text? I try to skim through quickly, not reading my sister’s angry scribble. But a few words leap out at me.

SLAG, one angry note reads, heavily circled and underlined, with five exclamation marks. Another states simply, LIAR. There are numerous scribbled doodles, too. Animals with sad expressions. Heart shapes with dark-red crosses scored through them. Then, on one page, a completed hangman picture, the dashes filled out beside it in childish capital letters.

C A T

Shuddering, I drop the book back into the chest as if it’s burning my fingers.

‘Okay, so you’ve cleared out her old bedroom at last. It was about time. What’s your point?’

Dad studies me for a moment, until I grow uneasy under his stare. ‘Catherine, please, don’t play games. It’s not funny. We both know it’s in there. You can’t pretend it’s not.’

I stare up at him, confused.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The snow globe.’ He sounds angry again. ‘You’re right, I finally got around to clearing out Rachel’s room a few weeks back. Kasia helped me sort this lot out. We threw some stuff away too. Took her old clothes to a charity shop.’ He pauses. ‘It’s something we should have done years ago. Ridiculous to hold on to it all. Like keeping a shrine.’

I look away, uncomfortable.

‘If it had been up to me alone,’ Dad continues, ‘I’d have thrown the whole lot out. I mean, what’s the point? But your mother got upset. She wanted to keep a few things at least. Personal items.’