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I shake my head and point. ‘Look.’
Ben pulls a face as he squats beside me with his arms folded across his knees. I haven’t seen him make this expression before. Maybe this is what he looks like when he’s happy and sad at the same time. I wonder if I look that way too right now.
‘Ben. Look,’ I say again, my voice cracking with emotion.
‘Hols, this looks personal…’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t think we should open it.’ Ben sighs.
‘What? Why?’
‘Because…’
‘Because nothing. This is exactly what we’re looking for,’ I explain.
Ben stands up and rolls his shoulders back and down. ‘Holly, what exactlyarewe looking for?’
‘Memories.’
‘Holly,’ Ben scowls. ‘What are you up to? Are you snooping?’
‘Not exactly.’ I raise my hand and wave it back and forth, dismissing Ben’s concern as I fiddle with the lid of the box with my other hand. ‘This thing is worse than Fort Knox,’ I say.
‘Holly. Stop it,’ Ben warns, suddenly becoming very serious. ‘This is Nana’s private stuff.’
‘Jesus, Ben,’ I groan. ‘You sound like Mam.’
Ben’s upper body stiffens, and he pulls his lips so tight together they crinkle like a fan.
‘Got it,’ I announce, triumphant as the lid finally lifts open.
Ben can’t help himself, and flops onto his knees beside me and stares inside. A mound of yellowed and crinkly paper stares up at us. The pages bow in the middle and rise at the edges like a paper canoe, evidence that they’ve spent years tucked away in the confined space of the pink chest.
‘They look as if they’ll crumble to pieces as soon as I touch them,’ I say, shaking my head.
‘They won’t,’ Ben reassures me. ‘Paper pressed together like that acts as one solid block. There’s strength in numbers, and all that. I do this all the time in work.’
‘Maybe you should do it, then,’ I say.
Ben raises his hands above his head, surrendering. ‘Nope. I’m still not sure we should even be up here. I’m not touching Nana’s stuff.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
Sucking in nervous breath, I slide my hand between the side of the chest and the pile of paper. Surprisingly, the paper cooperates effortlessly and I fall back onto my bum cradling the intact mound against my chest. I cross my legs and place the paper on the floor in the space between Ben and me.
‘What is it?’ Ben asks, mesmerised.
‘Oh, so now you’re interested?’ I smirk.
‘Holly. Be serious. Is it… is it Nana’s will or something?’
I scrunch my nose. ‘Jesus, Ben. No. God, no. It’s art, I think. Paintings. Marcy told me about them.’
‘Marcy?’ Ben narrows his eyes, unsure. ‘How did Marcy know about them?’
‘Nana’s been dreaming about them.’
