Page 11 of The Diary at the Last House Before the Sea

‘Just about,’ said Clara, starting to scoop the remainder of the pile back into the carrier bag. ‘Sorry, Gran,’ she murmured, but her mother was right. This was nothing but a pile of old tat destined for the bin.

She paused when her hand brushed against something soft and, pulling aside a half-empty pack of tissues, her fingers closed around a drawstring bag made of purple velvet.

‘Come on, Clara. You can finish that later,’ her mother called from the table.

‘Won’t be a sec,’ said Clara, opening the bag and pulling out a small book. It was bound in white leather, its pages edged in gold, and there was embossed lettering on the front: Daily Diary 1957.

Clara didn’t realise that her grandmother had kept a diary. She did a quick calculation in her head. Violet Netherway would have been thirty-two years old in 1957 and working at the manor house as the housekeeper, just as her mother had done before her.

Waiting on the Brellashams truly was a Netherway family tradition, thought Clara. She smiled ruefully, aware of her mixed feelings about the ways in which the two families had become intertwined. Netherway women had shown how independent and assertive they were, as well as ahead of their time, by insisting on keeping their own surname after marriage. Her own father had been sparky enough to take on the Netherway name in honour of his wife. Yet they’d all spent decades fetching and carrying for a family who didn’t always appear to appreciate their subservience and hard work.

However, as Clara often told herself, her mother was happy with the arrangement, and her father and grandmother had been too, so it was pointless being chippy about it.

Though maybe her gran’s diary would paint a different picture of life at the manor. Clara opened the first page, keen to read Violet’s thoughts. But Violet Netherway wasn’t the name inscribed inside. Written, in large looping letters, was Audrey Brellasham.

Clara snapped the book shut. Was this really Audrey’s diary and, if so, how did it come to be in her grandmother’s possession, hidden beneath a pile of old junk in her bedside table?

‘Clara, your food’s getting cold,’ called Julie, irritation in her voice.

Clara got to her feet and went to the table. ‘Sorry, I got distracted. Guess what I’ve just found in Gran’s belongings.’ Without waiting for her mother’s reply – because she’d never guess in a month of Sundays – she told her: ‘Audrey Brellasham’s diary.’

Julie blinked and stopped ladling beef stew onto Clara’s plate. ‘What do you mean, Audrey Brellasham’s diary?’

‘I mean it’s a diary from 1957 and it’s got Audrey’s name written inside it so I presume it’s hers. Look.’

‘No,’ said her mother forcefully, as Clara went to open the book. ‘Please put the diary down and leave it, Clara.’

‘Why? Don’t you want to know more about the kind of woman Audrey was? No one ever mentions her. Well, Geoffrey did briefly today but only after I commented on the photo of her in the library.’

‘You spoke to Geoffrey about his stepmother?’ Julie frowned. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

‘Why not? I understand that it must have been traumatic for him when she died but that was almost seventy years ago now, and this diary might contain her final words.’

Beef stew splattered across the table as Julie waved the ladle in Clara’s face. ‘I meant what I said, Clara. Step away from the diary. Now!’

Her mother looked so panicked, Clara placed the book on the table, unopened.

‘What on earth’s the matter, Mum?’

‘You shouldn’t be reading someone’s diary, that’s all.’ Julie pushed it across the table, out of Clara’s reach. ‘Reading someone else’s diary is very wrong. It’s a gross betrayal of trust.’

‘It’s wrong if they’re alive. But Audrey has been dead for so long, I can’t see that it would do any harm.’

Julie placed the ladle carefully into the casserole dish and swallowed hard. ‘You have no idea what harm that diary could do. No idea at all.’

‘Then tell me, Mum,’ said Clara gently, alarmed by her mother’s outburst. ‘How can I understand if I don’t know what’s going on?’

‘It’s not what’s going on now, it’s what went on in 1957.’ Julie breathed out slowly as if she was coming to a decision. Then, she gave a slight nod. ‘It’s not something your grandmother ever spoke about but the fact is she almost went to prison after Audrey Brellasham went missing.’

‘What, Gran? Prison?’ Clara’s jaw dropped at the thought of gentle Violet Netherway, an upstanding member of the local community, facing jail. ‘What did she do?’

‘Absolutely nothing but that didn’t stop suspicion falling on her when a diamond necklace went missing at the same time as Audrey. She was accused of theft.’

‘Why would someone suspect her of stealing the necklace?’ asked Clara, sinking onto a seat.

‘She was at the manor house, serving up a meal to Edwin, when Audrey went into the sea, so they couldn’t pin that on her. But afterwards, when search parties were trying to find Audrey, your gran was seen by a maid going into the woman’s bedroom and coming out with something in her pocket.

‘Before he joined in the search, Edwin decreed that no one should go into his wife’s room, and your gran always denied being in there. But the police were involved for a while and, though she was ultimately exonerated, mud sticks, doesn’t it? It happened a few years before I was born but your grandfather told me she’d had a dreadful time with it all. She almost lost her job but Edwin relented when the police dropped the case.’

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