Page 23 of Last Letter Home
‘My hot stone was hardly warm.’
‘Mine is still. Here, that’s it.’
They hugged each other till Diane’s shuddering ceased. Despite the familiarity of the scent of her hair and skin, Diane felt to Sarah like a foreign little creature, unknown, unknowable, her slender limbs as finely wrought as a bird’s wings, her cropped hair soft as down against Sarah’s cheek.
‘I feel a bit icky,’ she said, using their old childhood word.
‘You’re not going to be sick, though, are you?’
‘I don’t think so. Did you like it tonight?’
Sarah sighed. ‘Yes, of course. Did you?’
She felt Diane nod. ‘It was fun. I don’t think it was for you, though.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Diane rolled over to face her so that her troubled eyes filled Sarah’s vision.
‘I could tell.’
‘You’re wrong, I was perfectly happy. I liked Jennifer.’
‘Yes, she was all right. The salt of the earth, that’s what Daddy would have called her. Oh I do miss Daddy.’ A little sob.
‘I know. So do I. Diane, is it all right for you here? Norfolk, I mean.’
‘Of course. Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘I don’t know. It’s so different from what you’re used to. Maybe you’re wondering what you want to do here.’
Diane rolled away and Sarah heard her swallow, then whisper, ‘But I never have, Sarah. Never have known what I want to do. What I’m for. And I’m different from you because I don’t care. I don’t feel things like you and Mummy. There’s just a deadness. Is there something wrong with me, Saire?’
Diane turned her head and their eyes locked in the hazy light. Sarah felt such a rush of shock and sadness at this revelation that she couldn’t think of a thing to say. Instead she reached and pulled her sister close and pressed her lips gently against her forehead. Diane snuggled against her and they simply lay there. Soon Sarah felt her sister’s body go limp and her breathing deepen as she fell into sleep.
No sleep for her. Diane’s words troubled her and she thought again how unknowable her sister was. It was touching that she had come to her in the night like this, an unexpected gift. She got cramp with one arm pinned under Diane’s chest, but when she tried to move, her sister groaned. She’d wait before trying again.
The picture came to her again, as it had many times since Daddy’s death, of Diane’s face that day as she’d rushed in from the garden. The shocked whiteness, her shallow breaths, the muttered words that didn’t make sense. ‘I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .’ Didn’t mean what? When she asked her weeks later, Diane appeared to have forgotten, for her hands flew to her face. ‘It was so dreadful. I should have helped him, not left him lying there.’
‘There was nothing else you could have done, dear. You are guilty of nothing, don’t you see?’ Diane simply stared at her with pleading eyes. There were no tears. If Diane cried for her father she did so alone and unseen. Sarah sometimes wondered whether Diane had been marked by something, the earlier tragedy that had struck their family. The thought was too painful and she brushed it away.
‘It’s all right, darling, it’s all right,’ she whispered to her sleeping sister. ‘You’re safe here. I’ll look after you. I’ll always look after you.’
Twelve
Period living
Westbury Hall development
Luxury serviced apartments
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The enormous board mounted next to the great whitewashed gateway took Briony by surprise. She drove up an asphalt road towards some promising-looking chimney tops gleaming in the late afternoon sun and slowed down in wonderment. Spread before her was a perfect Elizabethan manor house, the brickwork cleaned up and mended. As she neared a gravel turning circle in front, she noticed a car park discreetly screened by hedges to the left, an elegant metal bicycle rack, unused, television aerials on the roof.
The great wooden front door bore a brass plate with ‘Reception’ engraved on it. Briony lifted an iron latch, the door creaked open and she found herself in a gloomy, high-ceilinged hall of panelled dark wood. Nestled in the elbow of the sturdy wooden staircase was a glass-sided lift. To the far left a great fireplace yawned. To the right was a sleek mahogany desk behind which a glossy young woman was tapping a laptop keyboard with purple-nailed fingers. Her neat black ponytail bobbed as she rose, smiling. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’ She reached for a sales brochure from a stack on the desk, but put it down again when Briony said, ‘I’m looking for Westbury Lodge. Was it you I spoke to on the phone? Kemi Matthews?’
‘Oh, you’re . . . Briony Wood? Lovely to meet you. Yes, I’m Kemi.’
