‘I have to go home and do the washing-up.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He approached me, then took me by the elbow and marched me unceremoniously towards the house. When we reached the kitchen, he pressed me down into a chair. ‘Sit. I’ll pour the tea. Milk and three sugars, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘There.’
A boiling hot mug of tea was placed in front of me. I couldn’t bring myself to look up, and instead stared hard at the wood grain on the old pine table. I heard Mouse sit down opposite me.
‘You’re shivering.’
‘It’s cold outside.’
‘Yes, it is.’
Then there was silence for quite a long time. I sipped the tea.
‘Do you want me to ask you what’s happened?’
Again I shrugged, channelling that recalcitrant teenager.
‘Well, up to you.’
Cupping the mug in my hands, I could feel the warmth of the room starting to penetrate my freezing veins. The oil tank must have been filled since I was last here.
‘I think I know why my father sent me to Arthur Morston Books,’ I said eventually.
‘Right. Is that good?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said as I wiped the back of my hand across a nose that was about to drip inelegantly into my mug.
‘When you first appeared at the shop and told Orlando your story, he called me.’
‘Oh, that’s just great,’ I said tersely, hating that the two brothers had been discussing me behind my back.
‘Star, stop it. We didn’t know who you were. It’s natural that he would tell me about you. Wouldn’t you tell your sister?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘But what? Despite what you might have heard or seen recently, Orlando and I have always been close. We’re brothers; whatever goes down between us, we’re there for each other.’
‘Well, blood is always thicker than water, isn’t it?’ I replied desolately, thinking that the only person I currently knew for certain had my ‘blood’ was me.
‘I understand you must feel that way at present. By the way, I knew Orlando had taken those journals.’
‘So did I.’
He caught my eye across the table and we shared the thinnest of smiles.
‘I suppose we have all been playing each other. I hoped that you might be able to find out from him where they were. I knew why he’d taken them, too.’
‘I didn’t, up until last night. I thought it was because you’d upset him over the sale of the shop,’ I admitted. ‘He was apparently trying to protect you.’
‘So, who does he think you are?’
‘He can tell you. He’s your brother.’
‘You might have noticed he’s not talking to me at the moment.’
‘He will. He’s forgiven you already.’ I stood up, tired of these conversations. ‘I must go.’
‘Star, please.’
I made for the door, but he took my arm as I reached for the handle. ‘Let go!’
‘Look, I’m sorry.’
I shook my head. I couldn’t speak.
‘I understand how you feel.’
‘No you don’t,’ I said through gritted teeth.
‘I do, really. You must feel completely used by us all. Like Flora – a pawn in a game you don’t know the rules of.’
I could not have described it better myself. Blinking away more tears, I cleared my throat. ‘I have to go back to London. Can you tell Orlando I’ve left and to pick up Rory at three thirty, please?’
‘I can, but, Star . . .’
He reached for me, but I wriggled violently out of his grasp.
‘Okay,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Do you want a lift to the station?’
‘No thanks. I’ll phone for a taxi.’
‘Whatever you wish. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve . . . us.’
I walked through the door and shut it smartly behind me, doing my best to control my desperate urge to slam things, then walked back to High Weald. Orlando, thank God, was not in the kitchen, and I saw that everything had been tidied away from brunch. I called the taxi company to collect me as soon as they could, and then raced upstairs to throw my stuff into my holdall.
Fifteen minutes later, I was driving away from High Weald, and telling myself that the future was all that mattered, and not my past. I hated that Pa Salt – whom I loved and trusted more than anyone – had only caused me more pain. All I had learnt was that I could trust nobody.
When I arrived at Charing Cross, I walked automatically towards the bus stop that would take me to Battersea. As I stood there, I couldn’t bear the thought of returning home once more to CeCe, after another failed attempt to find my own life. And her inevitable glee that I hadn’t, I thought meanly.
I berated myself for the thought, for even though there was undoubtedly part of her that would be happy to have me back all to herself, I also knew that she was the person who loved me most in the world, and would want to comfort me in my pain. But that would mean telling her what I had discovered, and I really wasn’t able to disclose that to anyone – not even her – just yet.
Instead, I got on a bus towards Kensington, and stopped in front of Arthur Morston Books, where this whole sorry story had begun. Finding the keys in my rucksack, I opened the door and walked into a room that was colder than outside. Night was falling fast and I fumbled to switch on the lights, then pulled the old shutters closed across the windows. Then I lit the fire, my hands shaking with cold. As I sat down in my regular chair, the heat warming my fingers, I tried to rationalise the misery that I felt. Because deep inside me, I knew it was irrational. Orlando hadn’t meant to hurt me – he’d wanted to help me by telling me the story. But I was so deeply tired, confused and sensitive that I’d overreacted.
Eventually, pulling out my jumpers from my holdall to cover me, I curled up on the rug in front of the fire and slept.
I woke in the same position, and was astonished to see it was almost nine o’clock. I must have slept the sleep of the dead. I stood up and went to make some coffee to revive me, drank it hot, sweet and black, and finally felt calmer. Perhaps I could squat here for the next few days, I thought wryly. Peace and space were what I needed just now.
I pulled my laptop out of my holdall and switched it on. The signal was weak down here on the shop floor, but at least it worked. I went to Google Earth to tap in my coordinates again and make sure I hadn’t made a mistake.
And there it was: ‘Mare Street, E8.’
So . . . after everything I’d discovered, was it likely to be a coincidence that Tessie Smith had lived in Hackney?
No.
I took out the notebook in which I’d begun to write my novel, and turned to the back page, thinking how my own history was fast becoming more interesting than any fiction I could write.