A creak and groan of an empty house from somewhere inside makes me jump. I stand still, just to be certain it’s not the sound of anyone actually in the place and once my heart returns to a more orderly pace, I let out a small sigh. Creeping around empty houses that I shouldn’t be in, is getting to me. I close the fridge door.
Really, what I’d like to do is get the hell out of this house, but I can’t. Not until I find whatever it is I’m looking for.
I walk into the living room and immediately notice the clock hanging on the wall. It’s the same clock as the one in the picture Alice sent Mum of her and Martha. They must have sat on that very sofa.
Alice on the left and Martha on the right. Or was it? Had the picture been reversed by accident? Was Alice really dyslexic?
I look around the living room. There are a couple of paintings on the wall, one is of the beach, probably local, I assume, and the other is of sunflowers; a prettier version of Van Gough’s. I peer at the signature in the bottom right-hand corner. Alice Kendrick.
This is Alice Kennedy’s painting. My sister’s painting. I touch the canvas, my fingers grazing the signature and, for the first time since I held Alice’s original letter in my hand, I feel a connection with her. My sister did this. She painted this picture. My beautiful little sister touched this, she spread the paints across the canvas, she signed her name in the corner. A surge of love swamps my heart and for a moment I think I’m going to cry. I blink away the tears and take my hand away. I can’t afford to break down now. Not after everything that’s happened.
A photograph on the mantelpiece catches my attention and as I turn to look at it properly, I experience another wave of emotion, this time not love but fear.
A man, probably in his fifties, looks out at me. He has fair hair and it is brushed back from his face. He’s wearing a stripy rugby top of pale blue and white and a pair of beige chino shorts. He looks to be standing on the deck of a sailboat, his hand wrapped around the rigging. The sun is shining and the man looks happy and relaxed, as if he’s in the middle of sharing a joke with the person on the other side of the camera.
I take a step closer and pick up the frame. I can remember him as clear as day. His memory never once faded with time. This is my father. This is Patrick Kennedy. I haven’t seen him for over twenty years and never thought I would, hoped I wouldn’t, but now, here he is, smiling out at me. I feel a little sick and take a deep breath, looking away for a moment. The feeling passes and I return my gaze to the photograph. I consciously study my reaction. I’m looking for any flicker of love, any connection, any invisible bond that could never be broken between a father and his daughter. The initial fear has subsided and, unsurprisingly, I feel nothing for this man. Where there should be love, there is just an empty space.
I scan the room for other photographs, but there are none. It’s the same for the hallway. There are four doors leading off from the hall and I guess these are the bedrooms and bathroom. I open the door to the first one on the left. It has a double bed that has been stripped. There are no personal items in the room; it looks as though someone has just vacated a holiday home and the room is waiting for the cleaners to come in and make the bed up with fresh linen.