Page 45 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

I proceeded to root around in a few of the Tupperware boxes stashed along the second shelf above the old fireplace, but there was no sign of a key in any of these either. Only tacks, blue tack, paperclips and Sellotape.

I was about to give up looking for this elusive key, when my attention alighted on something peeking out from behind one of her glass butterfly ornaments: the Swallow Tail, with its lemon and black markings.

I gently pushed it to one side.

It looked like a small, dark jewellery box.

There was an ornate motif of two peacocks on the top of the marble, oval box, their plumed tails entwined around each other in an elaborate display.

I couldn’t recall ever seeing this before. Although to be fair, it could’ve been in here for years and no one would have known, so protective of her art space was my grandma.

I picked up the little box. It was beautiful.

I lifted the lid to reveal a red velvet interior and some of my grandmother’s earrings inside. There were two pairs of simple pearl studs and a pair of dazzling, party-style earrings which looked like Roman gold coins.

I was about to close the lid again, when something made me caress the party earrings. They moved and I noticed an item move underneath them. It was a small brass key.

I carefully removed it out of the jewellery box and examined it. Could this be it?

I set the little box back on the shelf and moved over to the desk. I slid the key into the lock of the third drawer. It let out a satisfying click and eased open.

Stashed inside this drawer were a series of floral notebooks, all tied together with a strand of tartan green and blue ribbon.

I angled the notebooks out until a wodge of them were resting in my hands. I set them down on top of the desk and gently tugged the tartan ribbon. It slithered off.

Were they more notes about her art? Tough, self-critical observations about what she could do better? But if they were, why conceal them in here? What might be so special about these?

I sank back down into the desk chair, with its scuffed arm rests and weary, floral cushion, and slid the first notebook from the top of the pile. It had a daisy imprinted on the cover.

I opened it and my grandmother’s frantic handwriting stared up at me from the lined pages.

I’d expected maybe some random sketches, suggestions for possible titles for her art pieces, or notes about the best HB pencils.

But this notebook contained nothing like that.

It appeared to be a diary.

I started to read and as I suspected, it was a journal, detailing her thoughts, dreams, worries and hopes for the future.

Guilt tugged at me when I realised what I was holding in my hands.

As I took in what she’d written, turning page after page and allowing her words to sink into my head, I let out a troubled gasp.

Oh, Grandma.