Free The History Room by Eliza Graham

house. And the gardens. The mural. That was a whole different thought from me simply moving on in due course.
    ‘We could never sell it.’ I sounded furious. ‘Never.’ I found myself sitting very upright on my seat, fists curled, ready for a fight.
    ‘Think about it.’ Clara sounded weary.
    ‘I won’t support you in this.’
    ‘Don’t you think’ – she hesitated – ‘that your reaction to this might be bound up with what’s happened in the last six months? Letchford’s become
very important to you again, understandably.’
    I felt like shouting at her not to patronize me, But it was true. The place had become a crutch for me. Unfortunate use of a word.
    ‘It’s not for us to make decisions for him.’ I pictured my father leaving the house, my mother’s birthplace, her family home for hundreds of years, the gardens still full
of the plants she’d propagated, the curtains she’d made hanging at the windows.
    ‘It’s something that needs to be discussed with him.’ She sounded almost mechanical now.
    ‘I don’t think we should make him feel he’s past it.’
    ‘No.’ She was no longer the law firm partner in the swish office; she was the elder daughter worrying about her family. ‘I know that. And I don’t want to see the place
go, either. I love it as much as you do. It would be weird to think of Letchford not belonging to us, of not being able to come back whenever we wanted. The boys would miss it. They’re so
proud of the house. And the mural, especially.’
    ‘Dad’s mural,’ I muttered, clutching the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. ‘With Mum in it. How could we leave all that behind?’
    ‘Do you remember when we scrubbed at the wall?’ She was still talking in the same dreamy way. ‘What we found?’
    I did.
    ‘It was back when there was all that trouble with the bursar.’
    I didn’t really remember the business with the bursar, but I did remember the woman I’d uncovered in the mural. Even my father’s tone, angry, clipped and central-European,
couldn’t tear me away. I’d barely heard the clatter of their shoes over the marble flooring.
    I was looking at a girl. But what a girl. She might have been a pop star. Her short purple dress fell to just above her knees. She wore knee-high boots. Her lips were wide and full and her hair
fell in an auburn wave to her shoulders. Her large eyes were hazel and seemed to glint with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. She seemed to be begging the viewer not to look away. But at the
same time the hand we had half exposed was held up in a dismissive wave. Go away, stay here . I was only ten but I could spot a riddle when I saw it. ‘Who painted over you?’
I’d asked the girl. ‘And why?’
    My mother’s hand was on my shoulder, pulling me away. ‘What have you done?’ she said, sounding almost confused. ‘That woman . . .’ She stopped herself. ‘How
could you do this?’
    ‘Who is she?’ I asked. ‘Why did they paint over her?’
    ‘Upstairs.’ She pulled me. ‘Now.’
    ‘I only want to know who she is.’
    ‘I’ve no idea.’
    She was steering me across the hall, my feet slipping on the marble tiles as I tried to resist. A small group of sixth-formers wandered in from the back of the house and stopped to goggle at us.
They’d probably never seen my mother in a state before. I hadn’t often seen her lose her temper, let alone resort to dragging me around. Clara followed. As we climbed the stairs I
turned to catch a glimpse of her face: white. Being good meant a lot to her. I felt a pang for her. Normally I’d almost relish seeing my older sister in trouble.
    Mum opened the door to the apartment and pushed me in. Dad appeared behind her. ‘How dare you?’ He spoke so quietly I could barely hear him. ‘How could you do it,
Meredith?’ I thought of telling him that Clara had also had a part in the mural defacement, but remembering my sister’s stricken face, I said nothing.
    ‘You know how much