‘Through all the therapy sessions, I’ve asked why my memories begin at boarding school.’ She lifted the box of photos and plucked out a few. Holding up a black and white picture of her father, her mother, a dog and her, she said, ‘This picture speaks of happiness and love. On the back it is dated, ‘1961, Patriarchy Ponds.’ They were all smiling, including the dog. ‘I was seven. I should remember this, but no. All I recall is crying my eyes out in matron’s office a year later.’

Diana watched her mother’s eyes focus on her, then the pupils shrunk in the bright morning light.

‘All these years I have been haunted. Did my father kill himself?’ A lump loaded in her throat.

Her mother looked down and that simple glance told Diana that she thought the same.

‘Mum.’ She picked up her hand and placed the photo of the three of them and the dog in it. The thin fingers barely had the strength to hold the photo this morning.

‘Did he love me?’

‘Yes.’ The word was strangled, and her hand shook so much the picture fell from her grasp onto the bed. ‘He . . . loved . . . you.’

‘Then why did he commit suicide?’ Diana twisted her hands together. She had to ask otherwise she would never know the truth. ‘Why did he leave me?’

‘He didn’t.’ She looked out to the bay and not at Diana.

She was lying, Diana was convinced. Turning towards her, her mother opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyelids closed, shutting down any chance Diana had of reading what she couldn’t or wouldn’t say. Her hand fell limp on the blanket and Diana pulled the photo out from under it. She didn’t stir. Placing the snapshot back in the box, she fought the urge to upend the box and bury her in the photographs. She left the box on the bed, but then swung back and tossed a few more of them at her. It was petty. Diana knew that, but something inside her raged. She was being lied to.

Her mother dozed on, undisturbed by the patchwork of faded photos covering her. When she next opened her eyes maybe she would take some pleasure from the memories or maybe she wouldn’t. Diana paused. Had her mother felt as betrayed by his death as she had? Was the pain still as raw? Those photographs spoke of love. She had loved him and he betrayed her too by killing himself. All these years her father’s death had stood between them. She should have asked sooner.

29. Lottie

29

Lottie

4 August 2018, 7.30 a.m.