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‘Hmm.’ Marcy actually scratches her head, and the cliché almost makes me laugh again. ‘It’s just… hmm…’
‘It’s just what?’ I say, riddled with curiosity.
‘Ah, no, nothing. Never mind.’
‘Tell me, please?’ I say. ‘Is there something I should be worried about?’
‘No. No,’ Marcy says, waving her hand back and forth as if she’s erasing a mistake written in the air. ‘It’s just… Annie talks about her sketches fondly. She babbles about them in her sleep. It makes her happy.’
‘That’s odd,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I’ve never known Nana to draw. Ever.’
‘I was wondering if she has an old sketchbook somewhere. Or some pictures she’s painted that are hiding away. In the attic maybe?’ Marcy says.
I shrug. ‘I dunno. S’pose we could take a look. But it just doesn’t sound like Nana.’
‘It was probably a long time ago,’ Marcy says. ‘Before you were born, I’d say. Maybe I should ask your mother.’
‘No,’ I twitch. ‘Don’t say anything for now. My mam is barely coping as it is. If she thinks there are paintings that mean something to Nana lost somewhere, she’ll be even more upset. I’ll look for them. It’s one less thing for my mam to worry about.’
‘Sounds like a good plan, Holly. I hope you find something. Your grandmother has such love in her voice when she talks about them. I know they must be very special.’
‘Okay,’ I smile, quite contented to have a chore. ‘I’ll start looking straight away.’
‘Good girl.’ Marcy places her hand on my shoulder.
I wonder if the paintings are really for Nana… or for me. I get the impression Marcy can read me like one of Nana’s books. Maybe there are no paintings. Maybe the idea is just a pleasant distraction. Something to occupy my time and stop me from freaking out again. I realise I like Marcy more than ever.
FOUR
HOLLY
The attic smells considerably less inviting than the chicken shed. The musty, damp stench wafted towards me as soon as Ben slid back the hatch. I don’t want to go up there. I suspect the only visitors the attic has seen in over twenty years have a lot more legs than I do.
‘Come on, Holly, will you?’ Ben peeks down at me through the square hole that opening the attic door has created in the guest-bedroom ceiling. ‘There are no spiders. I’ve checked.’
‘Be careful,’ I warn instinctively.
‘Are you coming up or what? This was your idea,’ Ben grumbles.
‘Gimme a minute,’ I say, my hands shaking as I grip the sides of the ladder.
Ben disappears from my view, and I know he’s getting pissed off. I haven’t even told him what we’re looking for. But as soon as I’d mentioned the attic, his face lit up. He’s most likely as grateful for the distraction as I am. Or he’s excited. It’s just like it used to be when we were kids. We’d dress up, the fairy princess and Darth Vader, and we’d explore for hours. We’d leave no stone unturned. Literally. The garden would be a mess when we were finished. We were like a whirlwind ripping through the house. Throwing cushions off the couch onto the floor, we used them as our stepping stones to cross the lava river. We’d pull fresh linen from the closet in search of treasure. My mother would scold us and insist we tidy up, but my grandmother would smile, tell us to wash up for dinner, and quickly put the house back in order by herself.
Timbers creak and groan overhead, pulling my mind back to the here and now and my position on a wobbly ladder. It’s the sound of Ben walking around up there. A few specks of dust trickle down and land in my eye, and I protest with some elaborate profanity mumbled under my breath.
My legs quiver as I make my way up the ladder. ‘I’m coming,’ I say, not sure why I need to announce it as if Ben isn’t expecting me.
Ben doesn’t reply, but a light flickers, and after a couple of false starts, it finally stays on. It doesn’t feel as scary when it’s bright.
‘Found the light switch,’ Ben shouts.
‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’
Ben groans. It makes me laugh. This really is like we are kids again.
I finally reach the top of the ladder, take a deep breath, and poke my head through. It’s surprisingly clean. Insulation visibly pokes out from the eaves of the roof, but other than that you could be fooled into believing it’s just another room in the house. Unused and cold – sure. But not a breeding ground for terrifying insects as I’d anticipated.
‘Look at these,’ Ben says, pointing at a mountain of neatly stacked cardboard boxes of various shapes and sizes. ‘Nana was a hoarder. Who knew?’
