At the door, she pauses, turns back. Avril is already reading again. This is your family story now, too, she thinks. But as she strides towards the closing lift, other thoughts cross her mind, darker thoughts with lacings of superstition and silence and fear: Be careful what you wish for. What was Grunnie trying to tell her?

15

Laura

Laura rests the exercise book on the arm of the couch, stretches her hands before the weak shimmer of warmth coming from the heater. The watch slides loosely to her wrist. Thin, she thinks, downright skinny. So much for Grunnie’s prediction of ‘wifie’s bones’. The smooth, white hands are unadorned but one finger still shows grooves made by the two rings she used to wear. Still, after all these years.

She turns up her palms, trying to imagine sores that would not heal, the speed of those ulcerated hands, the constant aggravation of salt and friction and freezing cold.

The phone rings, and she is there, panicking, panicking, but it’s Wendy. A glance at the clock above the mantelpiece.

Sorry to call so late, Laura. I’ve only just realised how late. I don’t seem to sleep much any more and I forget. I didn’t wake you, did I?

No, of course not. I don’t sleep much myself these days. And look, I’m the one who should be apologising. I meant to call you when I got home. Thank you for dropping off that package at the hospital.

I just wanted to explain about that, Laura.

My grandmother’s journals. Laura looks at the exercise book facedown on the arm of the couch.

I thought that’s what they must be, diaries or something.

Aunty Clemmie had them?

It looks like it. They were in a wooden trunk that had her name carved on the top, with a lot of other stuff of hers. I found it when I was clearing out Ma’s house. I don’t know, Laura … I don’t think Ma knew they were there. I’m sure she would have given them to you otherwise.

I keep wondering why your grandmother didn’t.

No idea. But, Laura …

Yes?

Where I found them. The fact that Ma didn’t know. It’s like they were hidden away.

~

Tea. More tea. She’s her mother’s daughter, all right. She used to chide Kathryn about it years ago. Such an old-lady thing, tea drinking! So conservative, for an artist.

Heavens, Laura, what’s an artist supposed to drink? Absinthe all day? Kathryn’s face wry and a bit impatient, her fingers circling in the air. You’ve been watching too many French movies. And anyway, I’m practising to be an old lady.