On one side, the furniture’s been skilfully stacked, using every bit of space, a solid wall of it. But Laura turns to the other side, a loose hotchpotch of bits and pieces.

Actually, I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks. The packers I got to move the furniture from Mum’s house did that stacking. The stuff she already had in here is this mess.

Thank the sodding universe for that!

They begin moving ceramic panels, fantastical mermaids, the wild-haired musical goddesses that were Kathryn’s signature piece.

These are exquisite, he says, running a hand down the curve of a whitewashed double bass wearing a necklace of shells. Your mother was the real deal, I had no idea.

Mmm, I’d forgotten.

What are you going to do with them?

She frowns. I should do something, shouldn’t I. It’s criminal to lock them away. Thank god it’s dry in here. At least they’re in—— hey!

He’s moved a panel, and behind it is a wooden trunk.

Bingo!

It isn’t a thing of beauty, ornately carved in camphorwood; it’s weathered, of sturdy plankboard, with iron handles worn smooth by many hands. Laura sees a watery girl standing beside it, in pinafore and hat, her hands pressed together, looking out to sea. The girl turns and whispers: The wide world!

Something’s carved on the curved top slat, between rusty studs. She blows across the surface and uses her sleeve to rub away the grit of decades—dust and spider webs, moth wings, mouse droppings.

Oh! Confirmation in crudely made letters.

MEGGIE DUTHIE

And an addition, smaller, cramped to fit:

TULLOCH

Her grandmother’s kist.

~

Laura feels bad about refusing the offer of a late dinner at Gideon’s, but she wants to explore the trunk. And she wants to do it alone.

Gideon unloads some of Kathryn’s sculptures onto the side verandah and struggles inside with the trunk. Yes, on the rug is fine. Yes, she promises, she’ll eat something. No to moussaka and Chianti, but yes to another time. He gives her a quick hug on the way out, an open-palm wave at the door.

Laura kneels beside the kist and tries to prise open the lid. It takes some work to move the hinges but then they lock into place and the lid falls back with a thud.

Disappointment.

Thin towels, once white, neatly folded. She lifts them out, layer by layer, but beneath them is more household linen: sheets, also thin, also with that sludgy look of old white.

And then something tucked down one side. Her hand touches paper. She pulls out a stiff sheaf of pages torn from an exercise book and holds them to her chest, struggling to breathe in smoky air.

April 1975

April 1975