Free The Ghost Writer by John Harwood Page B

disembodied with each reply.
    'You
must
remember, Mother. You were so furious. The picture you caught me with, that afternoon in your bedroom—'
    'You were always poking about in my bedroom, Gerard. You can't expect me to remember every single time I caught you in there.'
    'But—but—' I could not quite believe this was happening. 'After that day you never mentioned Staplefield again—'
    'All I remember, Gerard, is that as you grew older you stopped asking. And a good thing too. We can't live in the past.'
    'No, but why won't you talk about it?'
    'Because it's
gone,
' she snapped. 'There was—there was a fire. After
we
left. During the war. The house burned to the ground.'
    'You never told me that!'
    'No ... I didn't want to disappoint you. That's—that's why I stopped talking about it.'
    'Well I wish you had told me, Mother. All these years I've been hoping, hoping to...' I couldn't go on.
    'Gerard, you didn't think it was
ours
?'
    'No, of course not. I just wanted to see it.'
    But of course I had thought of Staplefield as mine, without ever quite admitting it to myself. The long-lost heir, stranded in Mawson, waiting for the family solicitors to call him home. Ridiculous, absurd. My eyes were stinging.
    'I'm sorry, Gerard. It was very wrong of me. I wish I'd never mentioned the place.'
    '
No,
Mother. I wish you hadn't stopped. Why did you leave? What caused the fire?'
    'It was—a bomb. We—I was away at school. In Devon. Away from the bombing.'
    For a moment she had seemed genuinely contrite. Now she sounded evasive.
    'And Viola?'
    'She looked after me. Until she died. Just after the war. Then I had to go out to work.'
    'But it was a big house, you had servants. Wasn't it insured? Didn't Viola leave you anything?'
    Another long pause.
    'It all went in death duties. There was just enough left to pay for my typing course. She did everything she could for me. That's
all.
'
    'Mother it is not all and you know it. What about "Seraphina"?'
    'I don't know what you're talking about.'
    'Viola's story. In the drawer with the photograph.'
    'I don't remember any story.'
    I opened my mouth to object, and realised I couldn't push it any further.
    '
Why
don't you want to talk about your, past?'
    'For the same reason you never talk about your—
friend,
I suppose. It's no one else's business. Not even yours.'
    For the first time in seven years, my mother had acknowledged Alice's existence.
    'No, it's not the same. Alice isn't—she's nothing to do with you—'
    'She's taken you away from me.'
    'That's not fair! Anyway, I'm almost twenty-one, people leave home and get married—'
    'So you're getting married? Well thank you for mentioning it—'
    'I didn't say that!'
    'Well are you or aren't you?'
    'I don't know yet!'
    We were both almost shouting.
    'I don't want to talk about her, Mother,' I said more quietly.
    'But you're going to see her.'
    'I—I just don't want to talk about her.'
    'Gerard,' she said heavily, after a long silence, 'I know you think I'm jealous. A jealous mother who won't let go. Nothing I say will make any difference. Just remember: I tried to keep you safe.'
    'Safe from what, Mother?'
    But all she said was, 'I'm going to bed now.'
    'Tell me one thing, then,' I said, 'I won't ask you any more. Where exactly was Staplefield? The house, I mean. Was it in Staplefield village?'
    Her chair creaked. She stood up and moved stiffly towards the door. I thought she would leave without speaking, but in the doorway she turned, light flashing from the lenses of her spectacles.
    'Going to look for Staplefield would be a complete waste of money. There's nothing left. Nothing.'
    She flung the last word over her shoulder. It hung in the air like the smell of charred paper as her footsteps receded along the hall.

    I HAD ALWAYS IMAGINED THE DEAD HEART AS A FEATURE less, Saharan expanse of sand. From thirty-five thousand feet, I watched the patterns unrolling beneath the wing, fantastic whorls and cross-hatchings and striations,