Harry Vine. I run the name over and over in my head and then it clicks. Harry. Kate’s editor. She used to talk about him whenever she came home. It was all: ‘Harry’s going to love this’ or ‘Wait till I tell Harry, he won’t believe it.’ She was godmother to his children if I recall. Two girls. I remember feeling envious of her connection to this Harry person and his family and wondering why she couldn’t be like that with Hannah and me.
As I fold the letter and put it on the kitchen counter, I think back to the times when Kate would come home for a visit. I hated it. Mum would spend days getting the house ready and making sure we had the right food in. And then we’d sit there poised on the sofa, waiting for her to arrive; the favourite daughter. She’d sweep in looking immaculate and stylish and I would feel shabby next to her in my cheap high-street clobber. I’d sit there looking at her wondering how she did it; how she managed to get so lucky after what she’d done. It was like she had this invisible cloak all around her, protecting her from harm. Whatever she touched turned to gold. Yet me, I was the opposite.
Still, she couldn’t keep the act up all the time. Sometimes we got a glimpse of the real Kate and it wasn’t pretty. Like the time she came to Hannah’s tenth birthday party. Hannah never got over that. None of us did. Even Mum was shocked. We knew Kate had just come back from a pretty hellish assignment in Gaza, but we didn’t realize how much it had affected her. Mum had bought Hannah a Barbie doll for her birthday and she was so excited. She passed the doll round to all her friends at the party so they could brush its hair and change its clothes. It was a gorgeous day and the kids spilled out into the garden to have a play before we cut the cake. I was in the kitchen counting out the candles when Kate appeared in the doorway behind me. She was holding the doll and she had a strange look on her face.
‘Western kids are so pampered, it makes me sick,’ she said as she came into the kitchen. ‘I mean, look at all this, it’s grotesque.’
‘Oh, come on, Kate, it’s just a few sausage rolls and a bit of cake,’ I said. ‘It’s not the height of luxury by any means.’
‘I’ve spent the last few weeks talking to children who have nothing,’ she said, her voice all haughty and pious. ‘Not a toy, not a book; most don’t even have access to running water. If you’d seen those kids, Sally, you would think twice before overindulging your own.’
‘I’m not overindulging her,’ I said. ‘It’s her birthday. Now please don’t make a scene.’
‘A scene?’ she shrieked. ‘Oh, yes, I forgot. That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it? Keeping quiet. Not questioning anything. Not making a bloody scene. Just like when we were kids.’
I was about to respond when Hannah came in the back door.
‘Have you seen my doll?’ she said, looking up at us. ‘Oh, there she is. Can I have her back, Aunt Kate?’
And then Kate did something so horrible it still pains me to think about. She stepped towards Hannah with this evil look on her face and she said: ‘I know, Hannah, let’s play Gaza.’ Then she pulled the doll’s head off and threw it on the ground.
Hannah was hysterical. Her cries brought Mum and the little kids in from the garden, and Mum immediately noticed Kate’s expression and swung into action, telling Hannah that we would send the doll off to the toys’ hospital and she would be as good as new. Then we brought the cake out to the garden and lit the candles. But the day was ruined and when her friends left Hannah went to bed and cried herself to sleep. After that she was never the same with Kate. Her beloved aunt had become something else, something unpredictable and frightening.
But I already knew that.
I sit down at the table and take the Dictaphone in my hands, fiddling with the buttons. It feels wrong. This was Kate’s and I feel like I’m intruding as I press ‘play’ and wait. But there’s just a loud hissing noise. It must be broken. I’m not surprised, the state it’s in. I press ‘stop’ then try again. It crackles into life and I hear a voice but it’s not Kate’s voice. It’s Mum’s.
‘Testing. Testing. That’s what they say, isn’t it? I’m meant to speak into this thing cos I keep forgetting where I left my glasses. Kate says I’m going to get through a whole rainforest of Post-it notes if I’m not careful so she’s bought me this nice new thingy. Though I told her not to bother. I’m too old for all this new-fangled nonsense.’
Tears run down my face as I sit there listening to my mother’s voice. She sounds so old, so fragile. I hadn’t been near her in those final months. I was still so angry.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I whisper as the voice fades out.
There’s a hiss of white noise and I guess that might be the end of it. I pick up the Dictaphone and try to find the rewind button. But then she starts up again.
‘I’m telling this to you because I know they’ll all think I’m barmy but I’ve seen him twice now and he was as clear as the nose on my face.’