‘Who took the photograph?’

She beamed. ‘Tom.’

Lottie frowned. ‘Do I know him?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’ She sighed. ‘He was the best of us.’

‘Did you work with him?’ Gran’s eyes flew open and her glance darted about the room before resting on Lottie again. She picked up another faded snap. In it her head was thrown back in laughter and on either side of her were young men. One Lottie recognised as Allan, looking rakish in a Breton top. The other man was dressed similarly but his look was more intense. He wore a bandana around his neck reminiscent of an old movie star. Was it David Niven or Cary Grant that she had seen in similar attire? She couldn’t recall.

‘Tom Martin.’ Gran pointed.

‘You look so young.’

‘I was nineteen.’

‘Who did you meet first – Tom or Allan?’

‘Tom.’ She looked out to the sea and groaned.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘No.’ She closed her eyes and in seconds she was asleep. Lottie gathered up the photos, taking time to look at each one. She paused, holding one of her mother in a tutu with a beaming smile on her face. It was so clearly her and yet so different. But aside from age, Lottie was hard-pressed to decide just what was different. Maybe it was the all-encompassing grin.

The sound of her mother’s footsteps alerted Lottie to her imminent arrival.

‘Your coffee’s there.’ Lottie pointed to the table. ‘What happened?’ she whispered.

Her mother glanced at Lottie and Gran. ‘She fell asleep.’

Lottie raised an eyebrow. Still keeping her voice low, she said, ‘So your latest interview technique is to throw things?’

‘I didn’t exactly throw things.’ Her mother walked to the window, collecting her coffee on the way.

Lottie went to her. ‘You once told me that sugar works better than vinegar.’

‘Did I?’

Lottie nodded.

‘I don’t remember.’

She gave her a disbelieving look.

‘Well, in some places it does.’

‘And with your dying mother it might too.’ She turned and looked back at Gran. From here she could see Gran still had a photo clutched in her left hand.

‘I don’t want to be here.’ Her mother’s shoulders dropped.

Lottie rolled her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t have known.’

‘It hurts and . . .’ Her mother glanced at Carrickowel.

‘And what?’ She reached out and put a hand on her mother’s shoulder.

She looked back at Gran then to Lottie. ‘And nothing.’

‘Mum.’

Her mother walked to the bed and pulled the Polaroid photograph from Gran’s fingers. ‘Christ.’

‘What?’ Lottie dashed to her side. The picture was a black and white shot of her mother clutching a book. She froze. The diary. She stole a glance at her mother.

‘My diary.’ She shook her head. ‘I’d forgotten it.’

‘Well, that’s good you recognise it.’ Lottie tried smiling.

‘Hardly worth remembering. Not important. Just “Dear Diary” stuff.’

Lottie released the breath she was holding. She clearly didn’t recall what she’d written.

‘Ah, yes, you still have all your diaries from school until now.’ Lottie pictured the white cabinets under the bookcases in her mother’s study. Once Lottie had dared look in them and was told to respect her privacy. God knows what she would think if she knew that Lottie had her childhood diary, hadn’t given it to her immediately, and had read it.