Page 14 of The Diary at the Last House Before the Sea

‘What did I think?’ River hesitated. ‘I thought it was good to see her again.’

‘It certainly was,’ snorted Bartie. ‘She was an annoying teenager the last time I saw her, with braces and dreadful plaits. But, boy, she’s changed for the better. You could drown in those big grey eyes and I loved her slightly arsey attitude. There’s something rather…naughty about her, don’t you think?’

‘Mmm,’ said River noncommittally. She’d been slightly arsey with him, but he hadn’t noticed her being the same with his cousin.

‘I know you and Clara were close, back in the day, but I was wondering, do you mind if I have a crack at her, while we’re here?’

River shifted round in the sand until he could make out Bartie’s face in the moonlight. ‘A crack at her?’

Bartie had the good grace to look a little shame-faced. ‘Sorry, that was rather ungentlemanly of me. What I mean is, do you mind if I try to woo her?’

River blinked. ‘Your love life is none of my concern.’

‘I suppose she might be married…’

Was she married? wondered River. Had Clara found the love of her life while he was ten thousand miles away?

‘But she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring,’ continued Bartie. ‘And when I was talking to Mrs N, while she was making up my bed, there was no mention of her daughter having a boyfriend or anything. She’s the type of woman to mention it too.’

‘What about your girlfriend? Mary, was it? You mentioned her during our drive down from London.’

Actually, Bartie had passed the time from Wincanton to Yeovil – a good thirty minutes – telling lurid tales of his love life. It all sounded far more exciting than River’s, which Bartie hadn’t enquired about beyond ascertaining that he was currently single.

‘You mean Mariella, my beautiful fiery Italian. She’s not really my girlfriend. It’s just casual between us. We both do our own thing, if you know what I mean.’

River raised an eyebrow, wondering if Mariella realised that their relationship was ‘just casual’.

‘But what about you, mate?’ asked Bartie, giving River’s shoulder another nudge. ‘You’ve been very tight-lipped about your love life.’

‘There’s not much to tell. I’ve gone out with a few Australian women but there’s been no one serious.’ Except Kitty, who had broken his heart two years ago. But he wasn’t about to tell Bartie that. He doubted that Bartie had ever had his heart broken. He was the heartbreaker in his relationships.

What if he broke Clara’s heart? River pushed down his concerns because Bartie was right. Clara was all grown up now – a very different person from the girl he’d known all those years ago. And her heart was her business and hers alone.

‘Well, that’s great we’ve got that sorted,’ said Bartie. He got to his feet and slapped River on the back. ‘And it’s so good to be back at Brellasham Manor with you. If only for a short while.’ He looked around the shadowed beach and at the black waves breaking onto the sand. ‘It’s a bit weird sitting on your own in the dark so don’t stay out here too long.’

‘I won’t. I’ll be in, in a minute.’

River watched Bartie make his way through the trees and cross the grass, silhouetted by light coming from the library. Then he turned his attention once more to the sea.

It felt surreal to be sitting here, with an owl hooting in the trees behind him and the sand growing colder. Audrey had left Brellasham Manor, and his mother had, too. Neither of them would ever return but here he was, back in his childhood home that held so many memories. He could only hope that coming back hadn’t been a horrible mistake.

7

CLARA

Audrey’s first diary entry, on the day that heralded the start of 1957, was brief: A new year beckons and I’m filled with hope for new beginnings. The gardens will soon be in bloom again and days will be long and carefree. Who knows what the coming twelve months will bring? I’m excited to find out.

Clara swallowed and brushed her fingers across the neat handwriting, her skin touching paper that Audrey had touched.

It was so sad that Audrey would not live to see all of those twelve months. She would be dead by the autumn of 1957. But on January the first of that year, she sounded so vibrant and alive.

Clara stopped reading, her heart pounding when she heard her mother’s bedroom door opening. She balled her fists as Julie walked past on her way to the bathroom, landing floorboards creaking with every step. Would she notice the light under Clara’s door?

‘Don’t come in,’ muttered Clara, knowing that one look at her guilty face would give the game away. She pushed the diary under the duvet and held her breath.

A couple of minutes later, the flush sounded and floorboards creaked as Julie made her way back to her own room.

Clara exhaled slowly when she heard her mum’s door close and fished the diary from beneath her bedclothes. She had to do this quickly because her nerves were in shreds. Even the hooting of an owl in the trees outside, usually a comforting sound, was making her jumpy tonight.

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