Sure enough, the cosy little home Mirren had spent so much time in as a child was bare and empty, the books and personal objects all cleared away; there were a few winter coats and clothes that Violet had been going to take to the home but then realised she would never need again, which made Mirren sad. It was a little eerie, but Violet hadn’t been there for a long time. Plus, Mirren had June to visit now too.
She filled two boxes with the odd bits and pieces before the estate agents came in, and thought she’d better check the attic.
There was only one item up there, and as she opened it, she realised what it was. Violet’s father’s old kit bag. It was incredibly ancient, dusty and decrepit; cracked along the seams.
Fascinated, Mirren opened it. There it was: his old mess can. An incredibly worn old greatcoat with a musty smell. Alittle box full of writing materials including, amazingly, some old French stamps. Wow. Amazing.
Mirren reached down. There was something ... something more at the bottom, with sharp edges ...
She drew it out carefully, then sat down with a bump in the cold attic.
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
Mirren couldn’t understand it. Why on earth had Violet thought it had disappeared when it had been here the entire time, under her nose?
She blew the dust off it, opened the small hard red cover. The beautiful black ink stood out, like it had been drawn yesterday, even though the pages were yellowed and worn. The first picture – of a child watering a garden – was ornate, almost surreal, but still, clearly, a child, living in a heightened, extraordinary world that was nonetheless plainly an extension of the artist’s own imagination. It was beautiful. But why ... Had Violet been going doolally?
No, realised Mirren finally.
No, that wasn’t it.
It wasn’t only Violet – and June – who had wonderful memories of the book. There was someone else to whom it was a world of happy love, a book that he had to keep close to his heart to remember, when things were terribly bad – and they must, often, have been so terribly bad – everything that was good about this life.
As if in answer, her fingers felt a stiff corner of something and she pulled it out. It was an old photograph; it must have been from the same set as June’s, as it showed the girls in the same dresses, only this time the girls’ mothers were there, young and pretty with their set hair, aprons over dresses, eachholding a little girl pressed against her, arms around her neck, and the little girls were grinning and waving at the camera. He must have taken it. They must have been waving at him.
Now in the elders’ seat
We rest with quiet feet,
And from the window-bay
We watch the children, our successors, play.
‘Time was,’ the golden head
Irrevocably said;
But time which none can bind,
While flowing fast away, leaves love behind.
Chapter 32
Mirren left the house quietly and thoughtfully. She had called June straight away, and June had exclaimed and said, well, she’d be pleased to see it, of course – but that Violet would have wanted Mirren to have it, and she’d never have been any the wiser with Mirren tracking it down. It was Mirren’s, to keep or sell, just as she wanted.
Mirren was so astonished and distracted, she almost didn’t notice two things – firstly, she hadn’t realised that it was New Year’s Eve, and the streets were full of people streaming towards town, fireworks already going off overhead; and secondly, the tall dark-haired figure waiting outside the gate, who startled her.
‘Christ,’ she said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I know, I know, I’m so sorry. I’m not stalking you, I promise.’
‘I think you mean stalking meagain...’
‘Turn your Snapchat map off then.’
‘I’ve been really busy,’ confessed Mirren truthfully.
‘Look, I just wanted to—’
