I want to say, I don't bloody care about bloody Fez! What the hell are you talking about! I want to know about the diary, about you, about what you think of all of this! Jesus! h! Christ!

But Louisa is with us and Archie is approaching, so I just say, 'Hm, how interesting. Mum, can we talk later, please?'

She pretends not to hear. 'Archie, darling!' She hugs him. 'Mum -' I say loudly. 'You've been away for two weeks and there's a lot we need to discuss. You know there is. I said, can we talk, please.'

Louisa looks over at this, and even I am surprised at the tone in my voice.

'Yes, yes,' Mum says, over Archie's shoulder, and she steps back. 'Yes, yes, yes.'

She smiles and Archie looks at me, instantly defensive of anyone challenging his sister. They are side by side, the grey sea turning behind them, and for a second they are the people in Cecily's diary, and I can't help staring at them. They are so eerily similar, their green eyes flashing, their dark hair shining, the same height, the same expression. I can see now, what has kept them so close all these years, closer than any romantic relationship. It's Mum's face as she sees him approach. How good it is, I think guiltily, that she has had one person in her life with whom she can completely be herself, Archie too: he's never as stiff and awkward around her.

'Hello, Natasha. We'll see you at Summercove,' Archie says loudly to the others - the Bowler Hat and Guy are walking back towards us, the former clutching a set of car keys in his hand. 'We're off to pick up Dad.'

'Byee!' Louisa says. 'Don't be -' she begins, and then stops herself. 'See you soon!' The Bowler Hat raises a hand in farewell. Guy gets in after him. Just like February, I climb into Archie's car.

'Where is this place?' Mum says in her normal voice, the one she uses when she's with Archie and with me.

'Lamorna House? Just along the Western Promenade, before you turn off for Newlyn,' Archie says. 'He's doing well. I saw him yesterday. I brought him some food Sameena made. Lamb chops and butter chicken. He says it reminded him of home.'

He stops outside a palm-tree-fronted esplanade, very English Riviera. He turns off the ignition and fiddles with his cufflinks.

'Listen,' he says, turning to his sister and then to me. 'He's fine, but I think he's a bit confused about things. Perfectly natural, and all that.'

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'About what kind of things?' Mum asks. 'He never makes any sense anyway.' She's not a great sentimentalist, my mother.

'You'll see.' Archie gets out of the car and we follow suit. 'We're not staying, someone should have got him ready, I told them when I came yesterday.'

It's so strange, walking up the neat path and into the overheated home. There are large safety notices everywhere, bright signs about breakfast and afternoon activities, and paintings of vases of flowers. There are a couple of residents in the hall, two extremely frail old ladies pushing walkers, both clad in baby-pink knitted bed jackets, and one of them looks up and stares at my mother and Archie as we walk in.

'More foreigners,' she says, with a baleful stare. 'Why don't you go back to where you came

from?'

Mum puts a hand on Archie's arm. 'We're just looking for our dad,' she says sweetly. 'What a lovely jacket that is that you have on.'

'I bet I know which onehe is,' says the old lady. 'Through there.'

'Charming,' Mum mutters under her breath, looking down at the old woman. 'Have a lovely day, won't you?'

'Stupid bi—' Archie starts shaking his head. He's flustered. 'She can't talk to us like that. To Dad like that. I'm going to make sure she's not talking to Dad like that. Where is the bloody nurse, anyway?'

'I'm sure Dad wouldn't notice if she came back with a huge sign saying "GO HOME" on it,' Mum says. 'Archie, she's old and mad.' She turns back to the old lady. 'We're from here like you are, by the way, madam,' she says. 'Not that it matters, but it's not very nice of you, to greet people like that. Bye.'

The old lady, who is not as confused as one might think, purses her lips at this. I smile at my mother, impressed, as Archie pushes open a swing door into the conservatory, and we troop in. A group of men and women is grouped around the TV, the sun streaming in through the glass roof. There is a glare on the TV which means you can't see the screen. It is very hot. There is absolutely nothing here that makes me think of Arvind. It's the diametric opposite of him, in every way.

'There he is,' Mum says, and her voice drops several octaves. 'Dad, hello, darling Dad.' She swoops down on Arvind, who is sitting motionless in a wheelchair, a blanket over his legs. There is a photo album on his lap.

'Hello, Father,' says Archie loudly. 'It's Miranda and Archie, come to pick you up for the ceremony at Summercove.'

Arvind doesn't move. Fear squeezes at my heart. 'And me,' I add. I step forward and kiss him. 'Hi, Arvind.' In a clear voice, but still not moving, he says, 'Cecily.'

'Father,no,' Archie says, as if Arvind is five years old and has just tried to steal some sweets. 'It's Natasha.' He says this very loudly. I can feel perspiration breaking out over my body. 'Look,' he says to Mum. 'They should have got him ready. I'll go and find someone, tell them we're taking him. Stay with him.' He is shaking his head, and not even looking at Arvind.

'Ah yes, Cecily,' Arvind says.

The sun is shining right onto us. I stare at him. I look down at the photo album. 'Is that her?' I

say.

It's a black-and-white photo of a girl leaning against a woman who has her arm around her. The girl is a teenager, long gangly legs, shorts, a shirt and a big smile. She has a longish fringe, which falls into her eyes. Her face is heart-shaped. The woman hugging her is Granny.

'It's her,' says Arvind. Mum is standing stock-still, staring at the photo.

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'Yes, it is,' she says. 'I'd forgotten that. That's the day we got home from school.' It's deathly quiet in the hot room and we are the only ones speaking.

'I'm going to go and find Archie,' Mum says. She leaves before I can look at her, tossing her hair out of her face, and she is gone, in an instant. I turn back to Arvind. 'How are you?' I say. 'How are you settling in?'

'Hm.'

'It seems nice here,' I say, lying. There is a slight stirring in the background, as one of the TV watchers shifts slowly in her chair.

'Do you like cold porridge in the mornings?' Arvind asks. 'No.' 'Neither do I. That is how I am settling in.'

I don't know if this is an actual issue or not, as so often with Arvind. 'Can't you have cereal?' I suggest, thinking what an Arvind-style conversation this is. I stare down at the photo again, greedily. I saw the sketch in Arvind's room, but I've never really seen her before. There were never any photos out at Summercove, apart from the one I saw Granny with, all those years ago. Paintings and sketches, yes. Family photos, no.

'Cereal does not agree with my digestion. But when you get to ninety, not much does,' Arvind says, interrupting my train of thought. 'To be fair to cereal.'

'But you don't miss Summercove?' I instantly berate myself. What a stupid question, what a stupid thing to say, how could he not miss it, here in this overheated white-and-yellow prison smelling of antiseptic?

'No. I don't miss it,' he says, to my surprise. 'I am very happy here in most ways. As I say, the porridge, the cereal - these are things which need to be satisfactorily addressed . . .' He trails off. 'But up here -' he taps his head - 'I have everything I need up here. Have you heard of a memory palace?'

'Sort of,' I say. 'You train your brain to remember things.'

'That is almost it,' he says. He closes his eyes. 'You build a palace of memories. Each room in Summercove is in my head, filled with things I want to hold on to. I am not in the house any more. It is in me.

'That's all I need. My old pupils write to me, I read books - thank God my eyesight is still good. I have my memories.' He gently closes the photo album. 'I can picture my bedroom in Lahore. I can see the Shalimar Gardens.' He is staring out to sea. 'The boat I took, from India to England, seventy years ago. I can remember my cabin. It had a stripe, painted green, across the wall. I remember the books I had on my trip, can see them on that little shelf, by the porthole - Boethius, John Ruskin and Bertrand Russell you know, excellent fellow. And I remember Cecily. So.' He puts his hands together. 'Last time I saw you, I gave you the first pages of my daughter's diary. Tell me, did you find the rest of it, hm? Did you read it?'

I don't know how to answer. 'Yes - yes,' I say, as if admitting to something shameful. 'Mum had

it.'

He nods. 'I thought as much. I found the pages in my room, you see, after she'd taken me into the studio.' He coughs, spluttering a little. 'I thought she must have spotted it while we were in there. Put it away for herself. Dropped the first pages, not realised.' He stops. 'Yes, so she has it.'

'I'm - sorry about all of it, Arvind.' I don't know what to say. 'It must be awful - awful for you.'

'I haven't read it,' he says simply. I flinch with surprise. 'What?'

'I know what's in it,' he says. He smiles. 'Perhaps I don't want to read it. Sometimes it's best to shut out the real world, you see.' He taps his forehead again gently. 'In the memory palace, I can choose

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what rooms to go into, you see.'

My mother calls out to us from the doorway. 'Ready?' she says, shattering the peace of the room. I turn, and her eyes are red.

'Ah.' I push Arvind in his wheelchair towards the door. He waves a polite goodbye to his motionless fellow-residents. 'The outsiders are outside. And it is written. Time for us to go back to Summercove once more.'

Chapter Forty-Four

Granny loved spring. She said spring made her happy. She hated autumn most of all, couldn't ever understand why people found it poetic and romantic. She said it was depressing, the sign that life was over. Spring, she always said, was why we stuck around, to see that life had survived during the long winter months. As we turn into the little lane that leads to Summercove and then on to the sea, I can see why. The branches are bursting with bright green new life. White apple blossom blooms in the orchard next to the house.

I think of her, starting another spring here, year after year, and then watching the summer fade away into autumn, the long winter nights, with nothing to do, nothing to occupy her, Arvind in his study, her studio locked away, only memories of what she did, what happened, and I start to understand a little better.

We roll almost silently down the lane in Archie's gleaming silver and red 4x4, so appropriate for Ealing, so out of place here, where it actually helps on the narrow, sometimes treacherous roads. He turns the engine off and he, Mum and I look nervously up at the house, as if expecting some sign. Arvind is still staring straight ahead.

'They've done a good job, Didier's gang,' Archie says to Mum, in the seat next to me. 'Hope you'll think so. I think so.' Why does he always want her approval? She nods.

'Good. I hope there isn't too much mess. You told him it goes on the market on Monday, didn't you? They have to have all their shit cleared out of here by then.'

Archie nods, and I realise how glad they will be to see the back of the place, in some respects. How sad that is. 'Agent says it'll go really fast,' he says. 'We spoke a lot while you were away. He says the price is absolutely realistic. And we should have some . . . left over.'

'Really?' Mum says, as if she's only vaguely interested, but I see her hands tightening in her lap, clutching the sheaf of notes for her speech.

'Oh, yeah.' Archie pulls the keys out of the ignition and turns to his father, as if remembering

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he's there. 'Come on, Father. We're here now. Let's go inside.'

It's Arvind's bloody house, I want to say to them. He's still here! Stop acting like that money's yours. I want to knock their heads together, and then I think, He doesn't care. He doesn't care and that's always been part of the problem.

It is strange to stand outside Summercove, looking up at the windows, with the memory of Cecily's diary still so clear. It hasn't changed much in all those years, either, it's not that kind of house, and so it is easy to imagine her, sitting at our room at the top, peering out of the window, dancing across the lawn towards the gazebo which stands at the edge of the garden, leaning against that wall there to have her picture taken. I clutch my bag, with the diary in it. It is now cloudy and the wind is still vicious, whipping itself against my hands and face.

We go inside, Archie pushing Arvind. The reception starts soonish. There are people already here, chattering, a few out in the garden, looking out to sea, sitting in the gazebo, enjoying the beautiful weather. I can hear Louisa in the kitchen, directing the caterers. We go into the long, bright sitting room, and I breathe in sharply.

It is not Summercove, the home I loved more than any other. That place is gone. It's as if it never

existed.

Everything has changed. Gone are the comfy sofas, worn-out chintz armchairs, the fireguard. Gone are the shelves lined with books on art, travel, photography, the battered old TV in the corner. Gone are the original fifties wooden sideboards, the bright curtains and cushions that were so in vogue when they bought the house which have lasted, most of them, all these years. All gone, the contents of the ground floor either moved upstairs for today or taken away to the local auction house or up to London.

The curtain rail, even, has been unscrewed. The French windows, where Jay and I would sit on rainy days betting on raindrops racing down the glass, are closed and the cushions on the window seats removed. The room is white, devoid of any furniture apart from dining chairs placed strategically around it, and Granny's paintings.

They line the walls of the big room, fifteen or so, and below some of them are sketches. Above the fireplace is 'Summercove at Sunset, 1963', and I stare at it, having never seen it in the flesh before.

'Where did they find this?' I ask. 'It was in her studio,' Archie replies. 'She never showed it to anyone. That, and - this was there too.' He points, and I swivel round. Next to the door, almost hidden in its shadow, is an oil painting of a girl, a girl I know very well now.

'Cecily Frowning, 1963'

It's the painting. I wonder whether Arvind still has the sketch. I hope so. She is sitting on a stool, watching the painter, her expression watchful yet slightly cross. She is wearing a pale blue cotton sundress, which sets off her dark hair and skin beautifully. One leg is tucked under the other, one hand holding the heel. She looks rather bored. I stand still and stare at it. 'My God,' I say. 'That's - it.'

'I'm going to find Louisa,' Archie says, looking at his watch, and he strides out. The door bangs behind him. We three are alone in the echoing room.

I turn to look at Mum. 'She said she hated being painted, didn't she?'

'Absolutely.' Mum nods. She narrows her eyes. 'It's rather clever. The way Mummy got that absolutely right.'

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We stare at it together, neither acknowledging that we're talking about the diary. 'I wondered what happened to that painting,' I said.

My mother moves closer towards it and peers. 'Goodness,' she says. 'You do look so like her, Natasha.'

'She does,' says a voice beside us, and I remember Arvind is here, too.

I do not move; I know that if I say the wrong thing, I could ruin everything. But I know now is the moment. This might be the only chance I get.

'Can I ask you something?' I don't use her name, or call her Mum, but she turns to me, slowly. 'Why did you take the rest of the diary? Why didn't you tell anyone about it, about the truth? Why didn't you tell me?'

She looks at Arvind, then back at me. She folds her arms. 'Oh, darling, it's complicated.' 'I know it is,' I perservere. I really want her to give me answers. She can't keep doing this. 'Just tell me why though.'

She shrugs, and looks at her father again. He nods. 'Please, Miranda. Enlighten me.' He gives a little gesture, as if to say, Go ahead.

'I knew Cec was writing a diary,' she says, in a rush. Her fingers fiddle with the knotted tassels of her scarf. 'All that summer. She wouldn't stop bloody going on about it. "I'm putting you in my diary if you don't stop being so mean to me,"' Mum says, in a childish voice.

'Did you know about her and Guy? Is that why you sent the diary to him?' I wish it all felt as though it was falling into place, but it doesn't.

She blushes slowly. 'I think I always knew, yes.' She shakes her head. 'It's not important, not at the moment. He had to have it though, I had to tell him. Anyway. I knew she'd written the diary so it had to be somewhere. I didn't think Mummy would throw it away. She wouldn't have done. Couldn't do it. So I had to find it. Because I knew - the day she died . . . she'd found out - about what she'd found out about—' Her eyes are burning into mine, imploringly. 'I knew, you see.'

'I know,' I said. 'I've read it, Mum.'

'Well, we went for a walk. She says that. We were both upset - so tired. You have no idea what it was like. We had a row about what to do next. I said we should expose Mummy. Tell Daddy. She said absolutely not.' She turns suddenly to Arvind. 'Dad - oh, shit. I shouldn't have . . .' She trails off, clamping her lips together. 'Forget it.'

'Please,' Arvind says. 'Don't protect me, my dear. I know what happened.'