Page 16 of The Diary at the Last House Before the Sea

Clara was sitting next to her mother in the room that had once echoed to the sound of Audrey’s grand ball. The dance, so keenly anticipated, that seemed to have sparked the chain of events that led to her death.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Julie leaned closer and stared into her face. ‘You look a bit peaky this morning.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ Clara ran a hand through her hair, hoping she didn’t look too much of a fright. ‘I didn’t sleep too well last night. I had bad dreams.’

‘Sparked by a bad conscience, I dare say.’

Clara swallowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You promised to finish the washing up before you came up to bed but there were still a few dirty pots on the kitchen counter when I got up.’

Clara’s jaw unclenched as she realised her late-night forage through the bin was still a secret. ‘Sorry, Mum. I forgot. I’ll do them before I start work.’

‘No need. I did them before you got up.’ Julie looked around the room, which was buzzing with the hum of conversation. ‘I didn’t realise that Geoffrey had invited so many of us. He must be absolutely delighted by River’s return and keen to share his excitement.’

‘Maybe,’ said Clara, who found it hard to imagine Geoffrey – a man not known for being emotional – being excited, let alone wanting to share it.

In all the years she’d known him, Clara had never seen Geoffrey lose his temper and had rarely seen him smile. He always seemed level, distant and somewhat cold – a combination that River had found difficult to cope with as a teenager.

Clara, who’d had a close and loving relationship with her father, had sometimes felt sorry for him back then: the poor little rich boy wanting for nothing, save paternal approval. His Australian mother, Lucia, was the opposite – vibrant, caring and tactile – so it was little wonder that her marriage to much older Geoffrey had come to such a messy end.

Her mum nudged her arm. ‘This is a beautiful room, don’t you think? It’s such a shame that it’s hardly used these days.’

‘It is,’ said Clara, taking in the portraits of long-gone Brellashams, the twinkling chandeliers, huge windows overlooking the gardens, and the opulent flocked wallpaper.

Sometimes, when the house was quiet, Clara would stand in here and imagine dancers in beautiful crinolines, being whirled around the floor by their beaux. Their faces lit by flickering candlelight while an orchestra played. Sometimes she fancied she could hear strains of the music – violins soaring to meet the intricately plastered ceiling. And now she knew that Audrey and Edwin had danced on these floorboards on September the seventh 1957.

Everything is black and broken. Audrey’s words written in her diary two days later sprang into Clara’s mind. What had happened here in this room to cause such a catastrophic change in her mental health? she wondered, as the past and present began to collide.

A sharp dig in the ribs from her mother’s elbow cut into Clara’s thoughts.

‘I hope there will be enough refreshments for everyone. Geoffrey seems to have invited every tradesman who’s ever worked on the house.’ She tutted. ‘I wish he’d given me a better idea of numbers.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure people won’t expect much, and I can give you a hand with making tea and coffee later, if you’d like,’ said Clara, whose guilty conscience about fishing Audrey’s diary out of the bin currently outweighed any worries about getting her freelance work finished.

‘That would be helpful. Thank you. Oh, here they are!’ Julie tilted her head towards the door. ‘It’s so lovely to see the boys together again, isn’t it? Don’t they both look handsome!’

A hush fell over the ballroom as River and Bartie walked across the floor and sat in two of the three chairs that had been placed in front of the windows. They bent their heads close together in conversation and Clara had a chance to take a good look at the two men she’d once known as boys.

In appearance, they were chalk and cheese – short-haired Bartie with his dark, leading man good looks, and River, with his thick, fair hair reaching to his shoulders. He wasn’t as conventionally handsome as Bartie but, Clara had to agree with her mother, he was good looking too. Once all limbs and sharp features, he seemed to have grown into his body. Now he was a strapping man of thirty-one, with a golden tan that accentuated the soulful brown eyes he’d inherited from his mother.

Overall, he looked far more like his mum than his dad, thought Clara, studying him closely. Geoffrey wasn’t bad looking, in spite of his tragic comb-over, but he’d become paunchy over the years. Whereas River looked taut and lean, as if he’d been working out in Australia. His shoulders were broad and the muscles in his upper arms were well defined.

He suddenly glanced up and caught Clara’s eye. ‘Awkward,’ she murmured to herself, looking away and feeling embarrassed.

Fortunately, Geoffrey chose that moment to make his entrance and everyone’s attention turned to him as he walked to the windows and stood beside his son.

It was good to see the two of them back together, Clara realised, though their close proximity only exacerbated their differences. River was still wearing jeans, with a pale blue T-shirt hanging loose. Whereas Geoffrey had on a checked shirt and mustard-yellow trousers, as if he was trying to live up to the stereotype of an aristocrat.

Beside them both, in smart grey chinos and a crisp white shirt, Bartie leaned back in his chair and gave Clara a wink. Clara swallowed and shifted in her seat.

‘Stop fidgeting,’ hissed her mother as Geoffrey stepped forward. ‘He’s about to speak.’

Geoffrey stood for a moment, looking out at the expectant gathering and cleared his throat.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said in his booming voice. ‘I have a few things of importance that I’d like to impart.’

When he clasped his hands together, Clara realised that he was nervous, and a shiver went down her spine. Why were they really here, a ragtag group of employees, past and present, in a room that had once rung to the sound of festivities?

---