Pip took a deep breath and then made a conscious decision to begin reading.
January 1st 1983
Happy birthday me!
In my life before Scarlet （B.S. if you will）， I would probably have been at some sensational party as the clock struck midnight and time slipped me into my birthday. I’d most probably have been leaping about, making sure everyone knew that it was now me and not the turn of the year that required their attention. Honestly, I can barely remember those carefree days now. They feel like they happened to someone else, and in a different lifetime.
As 1983 began, I was tucked up in bed rather than celebrating at a party （although I wasn’t asleep – I do still have some vestiges of fun left in me and the turning of the year is something that should be marked, no matter how quietly）。 There was a party going on down the street somewhere and I could hear the revellers as they barrelled past the house on their way home. I also heard Joan open her window and bellow at them to be quiet because decent people were trying to sleep. Ironically, Joan probably woke more people with her caterwauling than the revellers had done. Now there’s a woman who doesn’t understand the concept of fun!
And then, a few short, sweet hours later I was woken by Scarlet who snuck into my room and my bed, pushing her cold little feet against my warm ones. She’d even remembered that it was my birthday, which is very impressive for a three-year-old. But then she is a very impressive child.
So, there is no better time than the start of the year to take stock of where you are and where you want to be. I am here and I don’t want to be! Well, that was easy. Not so easy is the task of changing things, but I’m going to make it my mission for 1983 to get back on track. Scarlet will start at school next year, but there will be playgroup before that so I should start to get a few precious hours to myself. I might even be able to get some kind of job, so I wouldn’t have to be beholden to Joan for absolutely everything. She makes it so obvious that she begrudges every penny she has to spend on me and Scarlet. But if I can work when Scarlet starts playgroup, then at least I could contribute a little, or even get some savings behind me ready for my escape!
When we move back to London, Ted says it will be easy to find someone to have Scarlet after school. So I’ll be able to go back to work properly. I am literally counting down the days . . .
By the time she heard her father’s Land Rover driving into the yard, Pip had reached the end of February 1983. From what she could gather, Evelyn Mountcastle lived a very small life with her daughter Scarlet and her sister, Joan. She seemed to have been in Southwold, which made sense given that the diaries had shown up at the shop. There were a couple of references to places that Pip could remember from her own childhood, although she hadn’t found anything specific enough to pinpoint where their house was.
She reached for her phone and googled ‘Evelyn Mountcastle actress’， but there was very little there, just a listing for a part in some seventies drama called Upstairs Downstairs , but all it gave was her name and date of birth, and confirmed that she had been born in Southwold, Suffolk. There was no photograph.
If Evelyn was from Southwold, though, then surely someone would know something about her, perhaps even her own mother. Southwold wasn’t a very big place and her parents had lived there all their lives. Quickly, she pulled on some jeans and a sweatshirt and went downstairs to join the others for breakfast.
Her father and Jez, having already done a couple of hours on the farm, were seated at the table, and her mother, polka-dot apron tied tightly round her waist, was serving sizzling strips of bacon on to buttered muffins. Jez looked up when Pip walked in and gave her a tentative smile. Her father eyed her quizzically, which Pip found disconcerting until she remembered that he would know about the drama with Dominic and would be worried about her state of mind.
‘Morning Pip, love,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
She could hear the concern in his voice but knew he would never ask her outright about the state of her love life. That kind of talk was definitely reserved for the women of the household.
She gave him her best smile. ‘I’m fine, thanks, Dad.’
He held her gaze for a second or two longer, as if trying to satisfy himself that she was telling the truth, and then returned his attention to his breakfast.
Pip lifted the teapot and pressed the flat of her hand to the china to test the temperature.
‘Would you like some bacon?’ her mother asked, but Pip shook her head. She had lost her appetite for huge farmhouse breakfasts. In London, fruit, yoghurt and granola, or smashed avocado, were more the order of the day. Or just coffee. God, she missed coffee.