Reluctantly Home(54)

‘What do you want?’ she asked through the door.

‘I just wanted a quick word,’ came the voice.

‘About what?’ asked Evelyn, her suspicions growing by the minute.

‘I think I have something of yours,’ the woman said.

Evelyn had to concede that the woman didn’t sound like a scammer, although she had only the shakiest notion of how such a person might speak. This woman’s voice was clear and distinct and she was well spoken, with only a hint of a local accent. Evelyn was still sceptical, though. She had barely left the house in years and it seemed highly unlikely that the woman really did have something of hers, but now she wanted to know for sure – exactly as the woman, if she were a scammer, no doubt hoped. Evelyn decided to proceed with caution.

‘Oh yes?’ she replied in what she hoped was a disinterested tone.

‘Yes,’ the woman continued. ‘A diary. From 1983.’

Her words made Evelyn sway a little, and she had to hold on to the doorjamb to steady herself.

‘I work in the Have a Heart charity shop,’ the voice continued.

Evelyn didn’t need to hear any more. She slid the bolt across, turned the latch and opened the door. Standing on the doorstep, but at a respectful distance, was the young woman from the other day, the one she had caught staring up at the house. She looked around thirty, Evelyn thought, but was somehow more careworn than she should have been for her age. Fine lines radiated out from her dark eyes and narrow mouth, and her cheekbones protruded severely, although something about her face suggested it was used to being a little more filled out. Her dark hair was cut into a neat, shoulder-length bob that she kept touching as if fearful it would fall out of place. She might have been pretty had she not looked so drawn.

‘Do you have the diary?’ Evelyn said without introduction.

The woman looked a little taken aback at the lack of social niceties, but she nodded obediently, her bottom lip caught between her front teeth. Evelyn assumed the book must be in the cloth bag slung over her shoulder, but her visitor made no effort to remove it and hand it over.

‘Can I come in, please?’ the woman asked. ‘I would love to talk to you for a moment.’

‘What about?’ asked Evelyn, her hand still outstretched to receive the diary.

The woman tucked a piece of flyaway hair behind her ear and shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘Are you Evelyn Mountcastle, the actress?’ she asked.

For a second, something in Evelyn’s heart soared. Evelyn Mountcastle, the actress. The mere words evoked in her a nostalgia so strong that the corners of her mouth turned up a little. She fought to push them back down.

‘I am,’ she replied grandly.

The woman smiled then, her entire face lighting up so that instantly she looked younger and less ravaged.

‘My mother told me you were,’ she said. ‘I gather you were quite famous.’

Evelyn shrugged. ‘I had my moment,’ she replied. ‘Although that’s all in the past now. I don’t act any more.’

‘Why not?’ asked the woman.

It was such a direct question that Evelyn was at first taken aback by it and then intrigued by the questioner. ‘The opportunities just never presented themselves,’ she said.

The woman nodded as if considering this, but still made no effort to hand over the diary. She was bold, Evelyn would give her that. Well, two could play at that game.

‘And you? You work in a charity shop, you say.’

The woman nodded, but the accompanying expression in her eyes suggested something that Evelyn couldn’t quite put her finger on. Was it a disappointment that that was what her life amounted to – not that Evelyn could see anything inherently wrong with the job herself – or sadness? Or loss? Yes, that was it. Evelyn could see loss in the woman’s face. It was something she recognised because she saw it reflected in her own features every time she caught sight of herself in a mirror.

‘But there’s more to it than that,’ Evelyn continued thoughtfully, as if she were a stage medium. ‘That’s not your job of choice, is it?’

The woman gave a brief shake of her head. ‘I’m a barrister,’ she said, her eyes no longer meeting Evelyn’s and focusing on the wall of the house instead. ‘But I’m not currently practising.’

She didn’t say any more, but there was more to be said, Evelyn could tell. Perhaps she should let her in? She could try to get to the bottom of this story as well as getting the diary back. She didn’t seem like a scammer or an axe-murderer, and Evelyn realised suddenly how much she ached to have a conversation with another human being, someone who did not feel obliged to be there and talk to her.

She opened the door a little wider and invited the stranger in.





32


Pip followed Evelyn inside. The door closed behind her, the sound heavy in the silence of the house, and suddenly the hum of the street outside was gone.

She found herself in a dark corridor, the air cloying and thick with the smell of dust. Evelyn led the way, and after a moment’s hesitation opened a door on her right into what Pip imagined would be the sitting room. There was no daylight in there either, but Evelyn stepped sure-footedly and opened the window blinds to let the sun in. The dust, so recently disturbed, floated around her, catching in the rays of light that now sliced through the space. There was a musty, neglected feel to the room, and Pip wondered how long it had been since the door had last been opened. She longed to fling wide the windows and let fresh air circulate, but instead she instructed her lungs to accept the poor-quality oxygen without complaint.