I wasn’t prepared for this. I know I should have been, but Iwasn’t. I thought I was fine. Losing Dad and then Mum in quick succession hadhappened so long ago. Dylan was the only one causing me grief now.
But the tears slipping down my face are testament to thefact that I’m anythingbutfine.
I have to exorcise the ghosts, though, otherwise staying herewill be impossible. So, taking a deep breath, I force myself to step intoDylan’s old bedroom.
At first, everything seems achingly familiar. Dylan’s bed,neatly made, pine wardrobe and matching chest of drawers, and the usual stackof books on his bedside table. My brother always had a book on the go, I think,as I wander over to look at his selection. There’s a couple of Agatha Christiesand a few psychological thrillers, and his old bedside alarm clock is perchedon a blue hard-back book. I pick up the clock, wondering if it still works andfeeling a twinge of nostalgia in spite of everything.
I wander over to the window and look out across the frontgarden. It’s just like it always was. Then I catch something out of the cornerof my eye: a pair of shabby trainers lying on the carpet by my feet. I stare downat the well-worn shoes, puzzled. Originally blue and white, they look too smallto belong to Dylan. But maybe it’s just my memory playing tricks on me. Theymust be his. Who else would they belong to?
Outside my own bedroom, I pause, almost too afraid to pushopen the door. (Revisiting the past has never been my favourite occupation.) WhenI do, I give an involuntary gasp.
The bed is rumpled and there are clothes lying on the floor thatI don’t recognise: a pair of jeans and a pink vest top, both too big to havebeen mine when I was fourteen.
My heart is beating faster as my eyes sweep round the roomlooking for any other signs that a stranger has been here.
What the hell’s going on?
Has someone beenlivinghere? Sleeping in my room?
They could still be here!
My heart lurches with fear. They could return at any second.I glance anxiously out of the window but everything is quiet and my shouldersrelax a little. I suppose any building that’s lain empty for a very long timeis a potential squatters’ paradise. But that just makes me feel more uneasy,not less...
A mug on the bedside table has been knocked over and there’sa dark stain on the beige carpet beneath. Feeling weirdly light-headed, I stepover the jeans and vest top and peer into the other mug that’s sitting on thebedside table.
Blobs of mould have gathered on the top, and the sight of itcalms me a little. The fact that it’s been there a while surely means that thestranger in my bedroom is no longer living here? Although why they would leavetheir clothes behind, I can’t imagine.
But the place doesn’tfeelas if it’s housingunwanted guests right now. Someone was here but then they left. In a hurry,maybe?
I release the breath I’ve been holding, feeling the tensionflood out of me.
Now that my car is parked on the driveway and there areobvious signs of life, hopefully I won’t be having any more unwelcome guests inthe near future. But it’s definitely another spur to get the house finallysold. Once it’s off my hands, any squatters will be someone else’s problem...
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
All the time I’m hacking at weeds and strimming awayin the back garden, my mind is on the stranger who’s been living in our house.
There was no sign that Sycamore House had been broken into,though.
I call Shalini to tell her what I’ve found and she’s aspuzzled as I am.
‘The clothes... could they be your mum’s?’she asks softly, and my heart misses a beat, wondering what she’s suggesting.
But next second, I dismiss this. ‘Mum would never wearskinny jeans like that or a vest top. And why would the clothes be in my room? No,they belong to someone much younger. I just... it makes mefeel so weird thinking some stranger has been here.’
Shalini must be able to hear a note of fear in my voicebecause she offers to close the café and get in the car and drive up toSunnybrook to see me. It’s a tempting thought. Being here on my own is reallystarting to get to me. But I can hear the sounds of the busy café in thebackground and I know Shalini will be rushed off her feet. So I convince herthat I’m absolutely fine and that I’m sure there’s no one here now, and shepromises to call me later.
The other thing that’s nagging at me is the blue hardback bookthat was on Dylan’s bedside table, with his clock resting on top. It didn’toccur to me at the time but now I’m thinking it might be a desk diary. It’sprobably really old. It might even be a diary he owned before we left SycamoreHouse a decade ago. But what if it’s more recent than that?
I’ve always been appalled by people who read other people’sdiaries. It’s such an invasion of privacy. But this is different, isn’t it? Ifthere’s a chance, however slim, that it might give me a clue about whereDylan’s gone, then surely I need to look inside?
But before I have a chance to go upstairs, my mobile ringsand it’s Anita wanting to know if we could meet to chat some more about FrenchPatisserie Sunday. I haven’t had a chance to think about cake, what witheverything else that’s been happening, but I tell Anita there’s no time likethe present and I can be there in half an hour.
Telling myself the blue book can wait until later, I take aquick shower and run a brush through my hair. Then I run out to the car, eagernow to leave the oppressive atmosphere of the house and see a friendly face foronce.
It feels like such a relief, when I arrive at the baking school,to talk about cake with Anita. I’d almost forgotten how happy baking makes mefeel. I found some raspberries growing wild in our tangle of a back garden earlierand I’ve decided I’m going to make a quick cheesecake from ingredients Ialready have in. It will be my first creative session in the kitchen for a longtime.
I was worried I might be a bit rusty on the ideas front, butsitting at the big, scrubbed wooden table, chatting and drinking coffee withAnita, I’m relieved to find my creative juices are flowing quite nicely as we throwaround ideas.
