Free The Truth Club by Grace Wynne-Jones Page A

three years ago. It’s as though, in some way, they’ve been trying to erase the past.
    A large beach ball catches my eye, and I smile. At least I recognise that. Dad and April and I used to kick it around on the beach while Mum read books about lone sea voyages. She claimed to find them ‘restful’. She devoured books about travel when we were younger. She loved nothing better than finding out how someone had spent a year with the Bedouins or met jungle tribes who had remained free from the trappings of modern life. I spot one of those books: it’s about a woman anthropologist who studied the ‘native ways’ of the Aborigines. I pick it up and blow the dust off the jacket.
    When I open it, I find a small red notebook cradled in the centre. The paper is frayed and old, and the big, bold writing is in faded blue ink. I open it. ‘Marble Cake,’ I read. It must be one of Aggie’s recipe books. I skim through it and see the ingredients for Vietnamese Chicken, and Sweet Potato Casserole with Lentils. Aggie must have been more adventurous in her cuisine when she w as younger. I tuck it into the pocket of my jeans. Maybe I should read it out to her; maybe it will help her remember who she was – who she is. She’s drifting away from us, and I must find ways to call her back. If only I could find the music box.
    I start to hunt. Under a big crocheted blanket I find the hummingbird feeder we had up in the big eucalyptus tree in our garden in California, and an old Sierra Club calendar full of pictures of American nature at its most photogenic. My mother has also kept a pair of very old leather sandals. She always used to wear bright-red nail varnish on her toes back then, and long, full cotton skirts.
    It’s not here. I realise this after half an hour. The music box has gone. I take a deep breath and prepare to go downstairs. Then my mobile phone rings. I take it from my pocket. It’s probably Fiona reminding me to wear good thick boots for our hike.
    ‘Sally?’ It’s Diarmuid. He sounds as if he’s been drinking. ‘Sally, are you there?’
    ‘Yes.’ I stare at a cobweb.
    ‘I won’t see Becky again if you don’t want me to. We’re just friends, but if you don’t want me to see her again I won’t.’
    I look at the hummingbird feeder. Hummingbirds fly huge distances every year on their annual migrations. They looked so beautiful in the garden, iridescent and small and full of life.
    ‘Sally, did you hear me?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Is that all you have to say?’
    ‘I’m sorry, Diarmuid. I’m in an attic.’ I don’t know why I should use this as an excuse. ‘That’s very… good to hear. But if you want to see her, you should. I wouldn’t want to stop you.’ What I mean is that if he still loves her I want to know it now, not later.
    ‘I don’t want to see her.’
    ‘Really?’ My heart lightens.
    ‘I want to see you.’
    I smile with relief. ‘I want to see you too.’
    ‘Becky isn’t even in Dublin any more.’
    ‘Oh. Has she gone back to New Zealand?’
    ‘No, she’s in Galway with her new boyfriend.’
    I wonder if Diarmuid can hear me smile.
    ‘I can’t meet up for a few days, I’m afraid,’ he continues. ‘I promised Mum I’d help her with some tiling in the bathroom. I’ll phone you.’
    After the call, I realise something. I realise that Diarmuid is getting used to being alone. He’s not just waiting around for me to make up my mind. He has his own life and his own plans – and that’s just how it should be. I have changed the way he loves me, diluted it by all this questioning.
    He has learned to live without me. I can hear it in his voice.

Chapter Six
     
     
     
    F iona and I are walking briskly along a pier; she changed her mind about trekking through the hills, thank goodness. It is a bright June evening – the same bright June evening on which Diarmuid said he wouldn’t see Becky again, and I realised I wasn’t pregnant.
    My period arrived after Diarmuid’s phone